Perception Deception 3: Tuttle
by Rabid Raccoons
Summary: The long-awaited conclusion to the Perception Deception trilogy. Brought to you by a pair of Rabid Raccoons. Rating may change due to occasional profanity and certain delicate situations; let the buyer beware.
1. Chapter 1: Homecoming

**Welcome** to the third and final installment of the Rabid Raccoons extravaganza, _Perception__ Deception._ Please read _Perception__ Deception_ and _Perception__ Deception__ Part__ 2__ -__ Audrey_ to fully enjoy our last installment: _Perception__ Deception__ Part__ 3__ -__ Tuttle_.

_**Disclaimer, Applicable to Entire Story:**__ In the case of fanfiction, the author(s) will usually give a disclaimer saying that the author(s) of the fanfiction do not, in any way, profit from the story and that all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator(s); in the Numb3rs universe, those creator(s) are Cheryl Heuton and Nick Falacci._

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 1: Homecoming**

Don lounged in his father's recliner, nursing a beer, and frowning as he studied his brother. Charlie sat quietly at the dining room table, head tilted in that new awkward way that meant he was accommodating for his eyesight, pecking away at his laptop. He was half blind and completely miserable, and both situations were Don's fault. First, he had dragged his little brother all over the country and come close (more than once) to getting him killed. Then, he hadn't been cognizant enough of the lingering effects of Charlie's injuries. His own brother had become addicted to pain medication, right under his nose. As if that weren't bad enough, Charlie had continued working the Tuttle/Montague case; Don had at least suspected as much. Truth be told, even though he had protested, he had let Charlie keep plugging away because he had hoped his brother might find something...work his usual magic. Charlie had found something all right - and Don had let them both barge into yet another dangerous situation like clumsy bulls in a fine china shop. No backup. Charlie almost killed - _again_. And the physical ramifications paled in comparison to the biggest casualty of all: Amita had finally reached her limit. Charlie and Amita should be married by now, or at least knee-deep in wedding preparations. Instead, Amita's engagement ring was upstairs in Charlie's sock drawer, and Amita was cooling her heels in Switzerland. Don's fault, all of it. Some big brother he'd turned out to be.

Robin settled on the arm of the chair and blocked Don's view of Charlie. He scowled up at her, and she smiled nervously. "Hey. I come in peace." He grunted, looked away and swallowed some more beer.

Robin tried again. "It's nice to have Larry back from Europe." When Don still didn't respond, she continued. "It will be good for Charlie."

Don looked back at her, dark eyes blazing with barely repressed fury. "Oh, yeah," he answered sarcastically. "That's why Larry and Dad are playing chess in the solarium and Charlie's sitting out here all alone."

Robin pulled back a little, her spine straightening. "Of course Larry's return _is_ a painful reminder that Amita chose not to come back at the same time...but Charlie will get past that. At least she's speaking to him again."

Don kept his voice low, but there was no mistaking the growl it contained. "He'll 'get _past__ it__'_? Yeah, what's a broken engagement compared to going blind and almost dying?"

Robin flushed and her expression became less sympathetic - and more angry. "That's not what I meant, and you know it," she whispered. "Amita told Charlie she'd be back around spring break; that's just a few more weeks. Maybe the time apart will have been good for them." She stood abruptly, raising her voice to a normal tone. "I've heard that a break can do wonders."

Don stared at her for a moment, then slammed the recliner footrest to the floor and rose to his own feet. "I've heard that, too," he snarled, before draining his beer. She crossed her arms over her chest and held her ground, lifting an eyebrow but saying nothing. Now that he was standing, Don could again see Charlie at the dining room table. His brother worked on, oblivious to the drama unfolding in the living room. He was rubbing his temple now, as if he had a headache. Don started for the kitchen, taking a wide berth around Robin. "I need another beer," he grumbled.

She didn't argue. She just let him go.

**...**

Special Agent David Sinclair gazed out the tiny window and watched as the lights of L.A. seemed to come toward the aircraft. He wondered what kind of reception awaited him.

Oh, there would be nothing at the airport - how could there be? He hadn't told anyone he was coming. Sure, A.D. Wright was expecting him in the office bright and early that Thursday morning, but even he didn't know exactly when David was arriving in town. Not for the first time, David mused about how he should spend the week. He had already contacted his old landlord, who had a vacant apartment and was happy to rent to David again. Sinclair hadn't taken all his furniture with him to D.C.; he'd rented a furnished place and put everything in storage, as if somewhere, in his deepest soul, he had always known he'd be back. He had an appointment to meet the movers at the storage facility in the morning. Everything would be back in an apartment that looked eerily like his old one before noon. He would spend some time stocking up at the grocery, unpacking the two bags he'd brought with him, connecting various utilities...but any way he looked at it, David was still going to be faced with a few days of downtime before he was due at the office.

The aircraft's wheels touched down with a jolt, and David briefly closed his eyes. He hoped this wasn't just another in a long line of bad decisions. His eyes snapped open and he frowned though the window at the tarmac. Maybe he should just get off the plane, go to the nearest ticket counter and buy a ticket to...Aruba. Somewhere. Anywhere. After all, he hadn't really intended to get his old job back - he had only contacted A.D. Wright for some advice when the new job in D.C. hadn't panned out the way he'd planned. Promised his own detail in a new, groundbreaking unit, he was surprisingly less than disappointed when a renewal of the government funding for the new venture suddenly fell through, to the shock of everyone on David's new team. His new superior promised to try to find him something else in D.C., but David didn't want to wait. He missed Los Angeles. He missed working with people who understood and respected each other.

He missed his partner.

When Wright offered him a position in the L.A. office, David had been surprised - and obviously tempted. Then Wright told him it was his old job, as second-in-command on Don's team - and David seriously backpedaled. How could he just show up, after all these months, and start telling people what to do? He refused the position outright. Finally, Wright agreed that putting David into a position of authority might not be a good idea; he would tell Don to name someone else - and Sinclair would fill out the team as just another agent. It would, Wright warned him, be viewed as a voluntary demotion. David thought about it for almost three weeks, weighing the alternatives; he could also choose to put in for a transfer and just go where the wind blew him. In the end, he decided that he wanted the wind to blow him home.

David sighed and stayed seated, still staring out the window, as the other passengers struggled to claim carry-on luggage and hurried to clog the center aisle of the aircraft. He had to let the team know he was coming. It wouldn't be fair to simply show up. Wright had agreed to let David inform Don that he was rejoining the team, but he was pretty sure Wright expected him to do that before he actually appeared in the middle of the bullpen. The entire team was expecting _somebody_ - Wright said that in the few months David had been gone, three junior agents had already washed out, and the team knew that next time, Wright would be bringing in someone with some serious experience - but he'd left the details up to David. It was a display of respect, certainly, and not a gesture David should ignore.

So, he owed Phillip Wright: for getting him the gig in D.C., then for welcoming him back to L.A. just a few months later. God knew, he owed everybody else. He'd let down the entire team. He had let petty jealousies and hurt feelings affect his leadership; he owed LIz and Nikki for that. His head wasn't in the game when it should have been, and they'd almost lost the Eppes brothers; he owed Don and Charlie for that. He hadn't trusted the best friend and partner he had ever had, hadn't looked past appearances to the heart of what made it such a good friendship and partnership; God knew, he owed Colby for that. David wasn't sure he could make it all up to everyone - but he knew that he had to try.

**...**

J. Everett Tuttle was, by nature, a careful man.

Apparently, he had not been careful enough. His trusted assistant, Ralph Nardek, had completely blindsided him. It was a fact of life that was difficult to live with, but one that was easily remedied. When he had first returned to the States, Tuttle had almost gone to the prison to visit Nardek. After all, he, Tuttle, was not a wanted man; he had been cleared in the investigation into last summer's Eppescapade, and had been out of the country during Ralph and Audrey's ill-fated attempt at de-Eppesifying the world. In the end, he decided not to go. The last thing he wanted to do was set himself up as a suspect when Nardek was found dead in the prison yard.

That should happen any day, now. J. Everett Tuttle was also a man with contacts. It helped that one of them, his former right hand man, Derek Mace, was being held in the same correctional facility. Nardek had tried to take Tuttle's money _and_ his bedmate - and the money part really pissed him off. It was almost a shame that little Ralphie would not live to regret his mistakes.

Tuttle _had _gone to see Audrey; mostly because he didn't trust the bitch. After all, it had turned out that her idiot brother, Vincent, was not such an idiot. The supposedly comatose man had laid flat on his back and summoned the cavalry; there was always the possibility that she was faking it, too. So Tuttle had located her in a state-run nursing home - disguised himself in a red wig and a thick pair of glasses, and signed the visitors' log as Dr. Scott Carson, Omega Research Institute. Carson really existed - he was part of the research team that had freed Mark Vincent's mind, and was now helping run the foster home Vincent had set up in Audrey's house. Tuttle had seen Carson's name in the newspaper articles he had read.

His visit to Audrey had revealed an emaciated woman with graying hair who bore little resemblance to the Audrey Montague Tuttle had once known. She actually made his skin crawl a little; it repulsed him to think of the number of times he had been inside that. He left convinced that she wasn't a threat; in fact, the nursing staff had told him that she was prone to infections, and not expected to live much longer. He wondered if he could somehow bluff his way into Vincent's foster home. He didn't see Vincent as a threat, either; he just wanted to meet the man. Congratulate him, even. In the end, he decided it wasn't worth the risk; he just re-read all the news stories he could find, and made an anonymous donation to the Vincent Brain Research Facility.

Nardek, Montague and Vincent taken care of, J. Everett Tuttle settled into his home in the hills above Los Angeles and took his time making his next set of plans. The Eppes brothers had screwed him repeatedly, and he would not let them win again.

This time, he was going to make them _wish _he had just taken them out.

The internet search engine coughed up pages of material on Dr. Charles Eppes. There was so much to wade through that Tuttle almost missed the engagement announcement, listed in an issue of the paper several weeks prior. He probably would have missed it, if not for the dark beauty in the attached photo. She had definitely caught his eye. He studied the photo for a few moments; saw the way the professor gazed at his intended. He remembered that Agent Eppes also had what looked to be like a serious relationship - with Brooks, the ADA who had taken Audrey down the first time.

Tuttle leaned back in his chair and smiled. Maybe it was time to admit he couldn't shake the Eppes brothers; maybe he needed to find a way to make them play on his side for awhile. He had no doubt that he would be able to convince them to carry out his requests.

They would probably beg for it.

**...**

**End, Chapter 1**


	2. Coming and Going

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 2: Coming and Going**

Don had ended up having more than one more beer at Charlie's the evening before – and he had been paying for it ever since. First, Robin left early without even saying goodbye to him, let alone giving him a ride home. He ended up sleeping in the impossibly small twin bed in his old bedroom. Apparently, neither Alan, nor Charlie, or Larry, who had stayed in the solarium, which was his preferred location, realized that Don stayed the night. No one bothered to wake him up, and in his hung-over state he slept through the activity and noise generated by three grown men getting ready for the day. He finally woke on his own - an hour after he was usually at the office.

The extra sleep didn't prevent him from waking with a world-class headache. When he stumbled into the upstairs bathroom (after stubbing his toe on the antique telephone table that used to sit on the opposite side of the hallway), Don discovered that there had been other changes in the house. No doubt due to Charlie's recent pain pill addiction, the bathroom was bare of _all_ medicines – including aspirin. Don tried to shower the fog away, but even the hot water didn't help much; eventually he gave up and crawled into the same clothes he had worn the day before.

His team members raised their collective eyebrows when he finally limped into the office - obviously hung-over, wrinkled clothes, two hours late – but no one said anything; not even Nikki. The silence was not reassuring, but instead, a stark reminder of happier days. Before David left, the team had worked and played together like a well-oiled machine. Something had happened while Don had been doing his level best to get his brother killed; things had changed. Before he knew it, Sinclair was leaving for D.C., and the well-oiled machine ground to a halt. David had been gone for six months, and he _still_ hadn't been replaced. Although two agents had tried to join the team, both had been gone within a few months. One was on the transfer list when he arrived – he was trying to get closer to his home state of Kansas. He came in as a short-timer and never clicked with anyone on the team. The other was liked well enough, but was fresh out of Quantico with no previous law enforcement experience. He made Betancourt look like a seasoned agent – and he ended up getting shot; off-duty. He did everything wrong when he walked into a convenience store robbery. The wound wasn't serious, but the junior agent had had enough by then; he decided that he preferred to let someone else catch the bad guys. He would deal with them after they were safely incarcerated. That agent resigned the Bureau and applied to law school.

Don settled at his desk and sipped at the coffee he had picked up at the stand next to the building. He hoped his hand wasn't shaking as obviously as he feared it was. The last thing he needed was for the other agents to see him spill hot coffee all over himself. His eyes focused – barely – on his calendar, and he suppressed a groan. This was the deadline Wright had given him for naming a new second-in-command. Whatever he did, he was screwed. Betancourt didn't have the experience – but she sure had the ambition, and she wouldn't let a rational argument like inexperience keep her from getting pissed off if she wasn't chosen. If Don chose Colby, would other agents respect him? It had been a few years since the Chinese incident, and most agents seemed willing to work with him – but would they take orders from him? Had Granger's stint as a triple agent stalled his career forever? And choosing Warner – well, that one was Don's fault, like so much else seemed to be these days. Agents who had been around when Don was sleeping with Liz – and those who hadn't been around but had heard the stories – would assume that she had slept her way to the almost-top. Having an affair with a junior agent – and one who worked in his office, yet...what had he been thinking? Don had jeopardized her career at least as much as Colby had endangered his own.

He was grateful when his phone rang and distracted him from his odious task. Maybe there was a quadruple homicide to keep them all busy, and Wright wouldn't notice that he'd missed his deadline.

He snatched the receiver from its cradle. "Eppes," he barked.

There was such a long moment of silence that he almost repeated himself. He opened his mouth to speak again just as his caller finally spoke.

"Don, it's David Sinclair. I need to talk to you. I'm here in L.A."

Don lowered the steaming cup of coffee to the desk. He wasn't quite sure what – or how much – to say. "That's...that's great," he finally managed. "Vacation?"

"Not exactly," David answered. "Can you do me a favor and keep this between us? At least until we get a chance to talk."

Don frowned and caught himself before he glanced in Colby's direction. "Sure, I guess," he agreed. "When did you have in mind?"

"As soon as possible," Sinclair responded. "Lunch, maybe? Or a beer after work?"

"Right." Don thought. He had tentative dinner plans with Robin, but maybe both of them could use a break. "How about dinner?" he countered. He lowered his voice and made a sheepish admission. "Not sure I'll be up for a beer. Kind of over-indulged a little last night. Larry just came back from Switzerland."

David laughed. "How is the little dude? Did Amita come back at the same time?"

"Not so much," Don answered simply. "We can talk about it tonight."

He heard David take a breath before he spoke again. "Yeah, okay," he said. "Listen...do you think it'd be all right if I called Charlie?"

Don smiled. "He'd kick my butt if he found out you visited and didn't call," he answered. An idea occurred to him. "Do you want me to see if he can join us tonight?"

David's response was a quick, staccato burst that set off Don's hinky alarm. "No. Not tonight, okay? I'll make my own arrangements with Charlie; lunch, or something. Please don't tell anybody, yet."

Don noticed that all three of his team members were standing; something must be up. "I think we've got a scene," he said, finally allowing himself to look at Colby, who gestured toward the elevator. Don stood, still speaking into the telephone receiver. "Sorry; looks like I'm leaving. Six, at Mario's?" he asked, naming an old favorite of the team's.

David's answer increased Don's unease. "How about seven?" Sinclair said quickly. "Can we just meet at your place? I'll bring pizza."

Granger, Warner and Betancourt were all waiting near the elevator already. "Right," Don answered quickly. "Gotta go, Dave. See you at my place at seven."

**...**

Charlie stood in the corner of his large office, in front of an expansive blank white board. He gripped a lemon-scented dry erase marker in his hand, but his eyes were unfocused behind his glasses; his attention was not on the board, or on creating an expression for his advanced combinatorics class. Rather, for perhaps the first time in his experience, he found something else in his life taking priority over the numbers.

He had been able to keep it all compartmentalized, to concentrate when he was at school — until Larry came back to L.A., and she didn't. Even though they had spoken by telephone a few times over the last six months, and had said a lot more through the safety of e-mail, it was obvious she wasn't ready to see him yet. Charlie had known that Larry was returning alone; still, when he had seen his friend arrive at baggage claim in LAX alone, it had hit Charlie in the gut like a sucker punch. He had actually almost gone down to his knees.

She had promised to be back in the spring...but Charlie missed her _now_. He wanted her _now_. He needed her _now_.

And he wasn't sure what else he could do. A man could only apologize so many times before the apology was watered down and became worthless. He had apologized for it all; for taking off with Don last summer, for his dalliance with pain pill addiction, for losing half his sight, for continuing to pursue J. Everett Tuttle and Audrey Montague on his own, for terrible things he had said to her while he was addicted, for the way he had made her feel when he withdrew into himself and his pursuit of Tuttle. He had nearly apologized for breathing.

He was growing weary of apologies; and her last e-mail, received just yesterday, had brought an unexpected dilemma. Some part of him understood that she was testing him, and that he had asked for it. But the greater part of him grew cold and filled with dread as he read her requests. She wanted him to stop consulting in any sort of criminal case — not just with the FBI, but with the NSA, the CDC, anybody. Everybody. Any consulting work he did should be restricted to the design of new protocols and programs, like the algorithm he had developed a few years before to help the Coast Guard in its study of currents. Worse, she had said she didn't trust him to be around Don and stay away from Don's FBI cases; she thought the two of them should move away from Los Angeles.

She pointed out that he had standing offers to teach at Cambridge, at Princeton and at Harvard; Harvard had also offered her a position once, and might be persuaded to do so again. Alan was welcome to join them. Charlie had decisions to make, she said. Did he love her enough to stop working with his brother? Did he want to spend his life with her even if it meant leaving L.A.? Was he ready to stop wasting his time and risking his life with cops-and-robbers, and start making the sort of stunning contributions to the study of mathematics that she knew he was capable of? When she came back in the spring, would it be as his fiancée — or as a colleague?

Charlie stared unseeing at the blank white board, and wondered.

**...**

Robin surprised everyone in the room — including herself. "I'll go," she volunteered.

Eric Tramden, head of the trials division, stared at her. "Brooks? You heard me say this is second chair, right? Even if you win, it won't help your record any."

Robin stared back at Tramden. "I understand," she responded.

"The trial could last for months," Tramden repeated himself, speaking slowly as if to a child. "In Dallas." He held up an upside-down baseball cap, filled with slips of paper. "I came prepared to draw a name. I didn't expect a volunteer."

"You underestimate your staff," Robin countered. "We're assistant United States attorneys, and another jurisdiction needs some experienced help from this office to second chair a rookie prosecuting a complex fraud case. That's what you said, correct?"

The other AUSAs in the room silently watched the debate as it they were at a tennis match.

"Correct," Tramden answered crisply. "You're right, Brooks. You're not assigned to a case right now, and you have the experience to help Peterson get his first conviction. Thank you for taking this on."

"Not a problem," said Robin, who, after her conversation with her significant other the evening before, was beginning to understand exactly why Amita had needed some time away. "I can go early, if you'd like."

Tramden tilted his head a little, obviously still perplexed. "That won't be necessary," he said. "You can consult with Peterson electronically, as long as you're in Dallas the weekend before the trial starts. Barring any more continuances, that's March 24; almost three more weeks."

"I'll be there," Robin promised. _And __I__'__ll __be __pulling__ a __lot __of __overtime__ before __I__ leave_, she thought to herself.

"Right," answered Tramden. He regarded the expectant faces in the room. "Well. Let's move on."

The meeting lasted another half hour, and when it was finished, Tramden headed back to his office, grabbed his jacket, and slipped outside for a walk to the corner coffee stand. Not that he wanted coffee; the trip allowed him a private conversation on his cell phone.

Sipping at the steaming brew, he strolled back toward the office, pulled out his phone and dialed the untraceable prepaid cell phone number from memory. "Yeah, it's me. You told me to keep you up to date on Robin Brooks. Well, you don't have to worry about her nosing in your affairs for a while – she's going to be picking up a big case in Dallas, and will actually be traveling down there for a few weeks."

He paused, listening to the voice on the other end, sipping his coffee. "Well, I don't think you need to worry about her anyway – or the Eppes brothers. I've been keeping tabs – and I've heard nothing concerning you from either her or the FBI office for weeks now. I told you I'd keep you updated, though, and that's what I'm doing." He offered a brief good-bye, disconnected the call, and deleted the record of it in his recent call log.

It was a risk to call J. Everett Tuttle at all, prepaid cell phone or not, and ever since the man had gotten himself sideways with the Eppes brothers, Tramden had rued the fact that he'd compromised himself by dealing with Tuttle in previous situations. Tramden had felt as though he was dancing on the top of a rolling ball ever since, and he had no choice but to try to keep his feet, and stay ahead of the game. He'd been lucky enough to dodge the Montague mess, and now he was intent on keeping Tuttle out of trouble – and himself out the limelight.

Back inside the building, he passed Brooks in the hallway, took a sip of coffee, and winked at her. "Had to have a fix," he said, lifting the coffee cup slightly. "Hey, thanks for volunteering to help out Peterson."

She smiled at him, although it was dampened by a darker look in her eyes. "No problem," she said smoothly. "I needed a change of pace, and it looks like an interesting case."

He nodded as he passed, and then paused in the hallway to take another sip, watching her speculatively as she strode toward her office. _Trouble__ in__ paradise?_ he wondered. He'd bet any odds she was having a spat with her significant other, Agent Eppes – which was even better news for Tuttle. Grinning to himself, he turned and headed for his office.

**...**

End, Chapter 2


	3. Ultimatums

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 3: Ultimatums**

**…..**

Dr. Amita Ramanujan stared at the message on her screen with a vacant expression, and then, sighing, hit 'enter' with one slim forefinger, tapping the key with finality. The keystroke sent the message off into the Swiss evening – through cables and routers and servers – where it would be received by other cables and routers and servers, jumping oceans and continents before it finally made its way to the screen of Dr. Charles Eppes. She sat there for several minutes after she had sent it, wondering if she should have.

She ordinarily despised ultimatums, but she had just sent off an entire list of them – to the man she loved, no less._ Quit __consulting, __move __from __your__ home;__ funnel __your__ efforts __into__ real__ math __research__…__that__'__s__ what__ you__ need __to __do,__ if__ you__ really__ want __me._ She felt like a petty dictator – demanding, insecure. Supposing that Charlie did everything she asked; how would that truly make her feel? She knew that she was asking him to give up FBI consulting work that he loved, to leave his Craftsman home – his home since boyhood – and to move away from the people dear to him, friends and family – just to be with her. She clicked the mouse again, and began studying a list of international flights on the computer screen.

Yes, she was demanding, and it was because she felt insecure. No, make that _terrified_. True, the events of the recent months would frighten anyone, but to her they held more angst; old memories still lurked of her own kidnapping, two years before. She'd handled that relatively well, she thought, but Charlie's recent ordeals had made those scars resurface. All of their troubles were the result of Charlie's consulting work with Don, she told herself firmly. Never mind that he loved the work, and that it brought him a relationship with his brother that he thought he'd never have. Never mind that what they did was admirable, noble even – taking horrible criminals off the streets. It was dangerous, and sometimes dirty, dealing with the dregs of society. One couldn't work so close to the criminal element without some of it touching his life. Charlie was too close to it to see that; he admired his brother too much to admit that perhaps their relationship wasn't the best thing for him.

That's what Amita told herself; anyway, resolutely pushing down any doubts. She knew, deep inside, that what she was asking wasn't fair, and she wasn't sure that she even liked the idea of leaving L.A., but she had reached her limit. To continue the way they had been would mean more worry, unending fear – and she'd had enough of that for a lifetime. She would talk him into coming away with her, and save both of their lives. She knew Charlie; he could get swept away, totally immersed in any complex mathematical puzzle that caught his attention. Once he was away from L.A. and engaged in true academic pursuits, other problems and challenges would capture his imagination, and he would forget about the crimes, the criminals. They would escape the uglier side of life. It was for his own good…

There was only one question, and the fear of that unknown was what had kept her in Switzerland longer than she had planned – would he say 'yes'? She knew he loved her – did he love her enough to leave everything, and start a new life together somewhere else? There was a risk in issuing ultimatums, and now that spring break was approaching and it was time to return to Cal Sci to prepare for the summer session, that reality was staring her in the face. He could say 'no.' She could lose him. It was that thought that had kept her from actually making plans to return – that stopped her every time she pulled up the screen to look at flights for home. Even now, as she stared at the list, noting that there was a flight with a decent price available in two weeks, her fingertip hovered uncertainly over the 'enter' key, much as it had moments ago, before she sent Charlie his email. She stared at the screen, and then, sighing again, clicked 'enter.' It was time to confront him. She was going home – and hopefully, going back to Charlie.

**…**

J. Everett Tuttle leaned back in the rattan chair, and smiled at his guest. The noises of the restaurant – the dull roar of the patrons inside the main dining room, the occasional clink and clatter of plates and utensils, even the softer chatter of the well heeled patrons sitting on the outside deck – coveted seats on such a balmy evening – plus the relative distance between the outside tables, all combined to make it a private setting for a talk. As Tuttle glanced sideways at the sun, just starting its descent over the Pacific, he noted that the man seated at the table closest to him was a large, florid, elderly man with a hearing aid. There was no one else close enough to hear their quiet conversation, but still he leaned forward, and spoke softly through his smile to the trim, good-looking lawyer seated across from him. "And how did your visit go?" he asked.

Jerry Shelstein glanced around without seeming to, and picked up a piece of crusty bread, breaking off a piece. "I delivered the message. I pretended that I needed to meet with him to discuss his appeal."

Tuttle's smile broadened. "Good. And how is my old friend Derek?"

Shelstein's handsome mouth quirked sideways and he sent Tuttle a knowing grin. "How do you think he's doing? A guy like Mace – as big and mean and smart as he is – he runs his cell block – maybe the whole prison, for all I know. He never liked Nardek, he told me. Had a nasty smile on his face when he said it." He popped the piece of bread in his mouth and chewed.

Tuttle kept the smile on his face, but he gave his head a slight warning shake. "I'm sure it's safe out here," he said quietly, "but it's best not to use last names." He took a sip of red wine, and his smile deepened, maliciously. "Anyone who overheard might think you a gossip."

Shelstein sent another guarded glance around him. He shrugged, but he kept his voice down as he reached for his own wine. "He said Nardek's in another building – there are six of them there. It might take a couple of days to pull it off." He sipped. "Damn, that's good stuff." He paused a moment, savoring the wine, then said, "Funny they ended up in the same place. Convenient, if you know what I mean."

Tuttle shrugged. "Not really. There are only two federal penitentiaries close to L.A. There are several correctional facilities, but both of their crimes warranted the penitentiary – they both tried to kill a federal officer, after all. I'm not surprised they both ended up at Victorville." He smiled, "As far as it taking a few days, well, Derek isn't stupid. He'll set it up so it won't implicate him – or anyone else associated with him. You did tell him of the urgency, however."

Shelstein nodded. "Yeah, I told him." He pursed his lips, and studied Tuttle. "He's scared of you."

"I know," murmured Tuttle. "Anyone with any sense _is_." He sipped his wine and smiled serenely. "You should be, too."

**…**

Don leaned back in his office chair and tugged thoughtfully at his chin, his eyes on his computer screen. He glanced at the digital time display in the lower right corner, started, and glanced out the window. Six-thirty. If he was going to make it to his apartment before David got there, he needed to get going. He closed up quickly and said good-night to Colby, who was on the phone. The agent gave him a nod in acknowledgment, and Don wondered to himself if David had contacted him, too.

He got home in time – no sign of David, yet, as he unlocked the apartment door. As his hangover had worn off that morning and his brain began to kick into gear, he had found himself wondering about their earlier conversation. The events of a busy day – they'd been called out on drive-by shooting because it had the hallmarks of another shooting they were investigating – had pushed it out of his thoughts until now. David was visiting L.A., but he clearly had something on his mind. What?

He grabbed an empty cereal box from the counter, and stuffed it on top of the empty beer bottles in the trash can, with a grimace. Too many of those in there, that was for sure. Too many restless nights – if it wasn't for the beer and maybe a shot or two, he wouldn't be sleeping at all. If he didn't fog his brain enough, it would be almost impossible to keep it from spinning relentlessly every time he closed his eyes. It felt a lot like how he had felt before the Crystal Hoyle debacle – which had nearly cost him his career. Now, like then, he was constantly anxious, with a feeling of dread lurking around the edges. Everything that had happened – the forced flight, the stress of living undercover, the injuries – and most of all, the guilt over what had happened to Charlie – had been building inside for months, and he felt like Mount Vesuvius, ready to erupt. When a guy got like that, a little alcohol was permissible – hell, necessary – to take the edge off.

Still, he didn't feel like explaining a trash bag-full of brown glass to David, especially when he hadn't seen him in awhile, so he hoisted the bag, clanking, from the waste can and carried it hurriedly down to the trash chute at the end of the hall. He walked quickly back, flexing his right arm – it had healed well, but it still stiffened up on him on occasion – and had almost reached his door, when David appeared at the top of the stairs. True to his word, he was bearing a large pizza box. He looked as tense as Don felt, but a grin lit up his face as he spied his former boss.

Don's own face creased in a grin, and he changed course, heading for David. "Hey, it's the pizza delivery guy."

"You got that right," said David, and they exchanged a quick one-armed shoulder bump of a hug, with the pizza held well out of harm's way. "Niccolino's. I've been dyin' for some of this ever since I left L.A."

They went inside, and Don headed for the fridge, opened the door, and snagged two bottles. He held one out to David, who had set the pizza down on the coffee table in the living room. "Beer?"

David took and eyed him, grinning. "I thought you weren't drinking tonight."

Don flushed a little, shrugged, and twisted the cap off the bottle. "One won't kill me."

David nodded. "Hair of the dog."

"Something like that." The conversation was a little strained, and Don grinned, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "Who the hell came up with that anyway?"

He grabbed some plates, and they sat in the living room. David bit into his pizza appreciatively, and as they ate, Don took the time to observe him. David looked good; he seemed as sharp as ever, and his clothes, although casual, looked new. He seemed to be doing well, but there was definitely something on his mind, Don was sure of it.

"So how's D.C. treating you?"

David sighed, and took a swig of his beer. "It's not." At Don's confused expression, he sighed again. "That's what I came here to tell you. I'm coming back to L.A."

Don stared at him. "What? Why? What happened?"

David shook his head. "Government funding fell through. They thought they had enough to fund the task team, but something happened. The funding got diverted when appropriations were being made – some last minute deal."

"Shit," said Don sympathetically. "That's too bad. That was a great opportunity. But surely they had something else with the Bureau in D.C.?"

David shrugged, and took a pull on his beer. He looked away, then back again. "Yeah, they did. It was a lead agent job, similar to what I'd been doing in L.A. I told 'em I didn't want it. I told my supervisor I wanted to come back here. He made a call to Wright, and here I am."

Don had been taking another drink, and he lowered his bottle quickly, sputtering a little. "Here? You mean back-at-the-L.A.-office-here?"

David nodded, apologetically. "I hope that's okay."

Don was on his feet and across the floor in one stride. He pumped David's hand. "All right? Are you kidding? You can't begin to know the jam you're getting me out of. Wright's been breathing down my neck to put in a team leader since you left. We've gone through two candidates, already. None of them were candidates for the job – they were all junior agents – but we were trying to get one to stick, to replace whoever I promoted. None of them stayed. Finally, Wright told me I had to promote someone from within – which, truthfully, I would rather do anyway – it's just hard making that decision. They'd understand_ you_ – you were team leader before you left. Otherwise, I know I would have ended up pissing someone off."

He had backed away, grinning, and settled back in his seat, as David said, "Well, you're still gonna have to."

Don frowned. "What? Why?"

"Wright didn't think it would be a good idea if I came back and just assumed that position after leaving, and honestly, neither did I. It would be one thing if I was from another branch and didn't know everyone there – but, well, anyway, I wasn't an unknown, and Wright was afraid there might be some hard feelings."

Don pursed his lips, nodding, and reached for another slice of pizza. "You mean with Colby."

David sighed. "Colby for sure, maybe even Nikki or Liz. We both thought it would be better if I just came back in as a team member – blend in, you know."

Don chewed speculatively, and nodded again. "I guess I can see that." Silence fell for a second, then he said, "Well, all that doesn't matter – what matters is having you back." He looked at David earnestly. "I could really use you." He raised his beer bottle. "Welcome back.'

David grinned, and Don could see the relief in his face. "Yeah, well, good. It's good to be back." He studied Don a minute. "You do look like you've been burning the candle at both ends – I guess you could use someone."

Don ran a hand through his hair to hide his sudden embarrassment. "I look that bad?"

David shook his head, and a small smile played around his lips as he took a sip of beer. "Nah - just tired. So what's goin' on at the office? How's Charlie doing? Fill me in."

Don leaned back against the sofa. "Yeah –well, you knew about Amita, right? Of course you did – she left a couple of weeks before you did. Charlie's okay. He called me today - he got an email that Amita's coming back in two weeks. I'm not exactly sure what's going on there, but the good news is; she's coming back here. And at the office, well, we got this case going…"

**…**

Alan pulled up outside the Pasadena branch of the Department of Motor Vehicles at slightly before ten the next morning. "Don't worry if you don't pass the first time," he advised, as Charlie reached for the door handle. "You haven't been practicing for very long."

Charlie paused and stared at him. "Thanks for the vote of confidence." His voice turned slightly defensive. "I took the specified instruction for vision impairment and put in all the required hours of driving."

"I'm not certain it was meant to be crammed into the space of two weeks, that's all," said Alan. He sent Charlie a look of wry amusement. "But I'm not worried about your vision. I'm worried about your driving skills – I'm still not sure how you passed the first time."

Charlie made a face, but his shoulders relaxed, Alan noted with approval. "Very funny."

Alan smiled at him. "Well, you wanted to be released to drive again, so you could pick Amita up at the airport when she comes home. What are you sitting here for? Go get 'em." He craned his neck a little until he could see around Charlie's hair, through the passenger window. He spotted what he was looking for a grinned, holding up a dog-eared paperback. "It's pleasantly warm today, and I have my book. I'll just sit on that bench near the entrance and wait for you."

Charlie managed a nervous smile, and took a deep breath. "Right. Wish me luck – and here's hoping I don't get that drill sergeant that was here when I came for my vision test."

The two men exited the vehicle and approached the building. At the entrance, Alan paused to lower himself to the bench, smiled at Charlie encouragingly, and opened his book. He hadn't turned any pages yet when his son — and the dreaded drill sergeant, no less — exited the building 20 minutes later, and headed towards Charlie's car for the test drive. Alan shook his head ruefully and sighed. Another half hour passed before the car returned again. Alan peered at it, trying to catch a glimpse of Charlie's expression as he got out of the car, but couldn't read it.

He still couldn't read his face, even after Charlie had come out from the building moments later, with his quick loping stride. He sank next to his father on the bench with a huge sigh of relief, and then held up his laminated license, grinning, his face flushed with emotion. "I got it."

Alan smiled at him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, closing the un-read book. "Heaven help us all. Congratulations." He cast a teasing glance in Charlie's direction, but his smile faded as he caught the glimmer of unshed tears in his son's eyes. Charlie was looking downward, trying his best to hide them, his eyes on the card clutched in his hand. "Charlie, what's the matter?"

Charlie swallowed, blinked, and his flush deepened. "I'm sorry," he said huskily. "It's just that, being able to drive again, to go places on my own -," He paused, and said softly. "I feel like a _person_ again."

Alan stared at him, feeling his heart twist. Charlie had seemed to be taking his vision loss in stride lately; it hadn't really occurred to Alan that it might still be affecting his sense of self-worth. "Charlie," he said gently, "do you want to drive? It's your car, after all."

Charlie's head came up, and a slow grin crept across his face. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Alan smiled at him as the two men stood. They began strolling toward the Prius. "Be my guest. But if you're going to put me through one of your hair-raising forays into the surrounding roads, I demand lunch."

**…**

End, Chapter 3


	4. Back to Normal

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 4: Back to Normal**

**…..**

Don stepped through the front door of the Craftsman after work, and was greeted by the delectable smell of his father's pot roast, wafting from the kitchen. He could see Charlie hunched over his laptop in the dining room, and he hesitated for a moment. He was inclined to think that his younger brother was again toiling on things that he shouldn't be – like the closed Tuttle investigation. If he walked over and found that was the case, he would be further inclined to lecture, and he didn't want to open up a potential disagreement right before dinner. So instead he headed for the kitchen, where he found Alan bustling about the room. There was a spring in his father's step, and he was actually humming to himself; Don hadn't seen him so lighthearted in weeks. "Hey, Dad."

Alan turned and sent him a warm smile. "Donnie! Just in time for dinner."

"Yeah, I guess I picked a good night to come. Thanks for inviting me – it smells great. It looks like you're fixing a feast here – what's the occasion?"

"No occasion," Alan tossed cheerfully over his shoulder as he turned back to his cutting board. "I took some time off to take Charlie for his driving test, and I had some extra time on my hands today. I found a recipe for beef roast online from someone in England – Lisa something – anyway, it sounded good. Plus, we're celebrating a bit."

"Celebrating?" Don's eyebrows rose, then realization crossed his face. "Oh – he passed, huh? Good for him."

Alan chuckled softly. "Not so good for the rest of Los Angeles, but yes, good for him." He set his knife down and looked back at Don. "It meant a lot to him, apparently – more than I realized. Of course, he has his heart set on picking Amita up at the airport himself, when she gets here. I think he wants to surprise her."

Don nodded. "Yeah, I can imagine he would." He watched his father work for a moment. "So, how's she – I mean is she, uh, - ,"

Alan had gone back to chopping, and glanced back at him again. "Is she coming back to _him_, or just coming back? Is that what you meant to say?"

"Something like that, yeah."

Alan shook his head and spoke to the mound of carrots in front of him. "I'm not sure, exactly. Charlie won't talk too much about it, but I get the impression her return doesn't necessarily mean it's a done deal. I think that's why he wanted that license so much – he's trying to prove himself perhaps; show her that things are returning to normal." He reached for a hot pad and handed it to Don. "Here – make yourself useful and get the rolls out of the oven for me, will you?"

Dinner tasted better than any meal had in a long time, and they lingered over it, enjoying it, the conversation, and the simple act of being together. His father was right – things_ were_ returning to normal – blessedly normal. Don could feel some of the load lift from his shoulders, just a bit. Even the office seemed as though it would return to normalcy, now, and Don decided to enlighten them on David's return.

"So, guess who's coming back?"

Charlie was toying with his mashed potatoes – still eating less than heartily, Don noticed, although he had eaten most of his roast. His younger brother looked up, blankly. "Who?"

"David."

Charlie stared at him, and an incredulous grin crept to his face. "Seriously? To L.A.?"

"Not just L.A. – he's coming back to the office. In fact, he's already in L.A. I met with him last night." He glanced at Charlie. "I'm surprised you haven't heard from him; he said he was going to call you, do lunch or something."

Charlie's grin widened. "I turned my phone off when I went to the DMV, and I missed a call from him; I thought he was calling from D.C. I called him back this morning, but I got his voice mail – we've been playing phone tag."

"I thought he had a great assignment in D.C.," Alan interjected. "What happened?"

"Money – or rather lack of it. I guess the funding fell through at the last minute – got diverted to something else. They'd already assembled the team, trained them, and they had a good-sized case load going. They had to divvy up the cases and hand them out to other agencies. The DEA got some, and the local Bureau office in Washington got the rest. David could have stayed, but he told them he wanted to come back here."

A smile of genuine pleasure was on Charlie's face, and Don did a double-take – damn, it had been a long time since he'd seen that smile. "So, when does he start?"

"Thursday," said Don. "But don't go saying anything, yet. David wanted to break it to the team himself – especially Colby." That earned him a questioning look from both of them, but he let it drop. Even he wasn't sure what Colby and David's status was these days; they had parted on less than friendly terms.

After dinner, they both helped Alan clear away the dishes. Don followed Charlie back out to the dining room, and saw him glance at his laptop, which he'd set on one of the chairs. "Working on something for school?" he asked softly, and he saw Charlie's head jerk back guiltily toward him.

His brother rubbed the back of his head uncomfortably, leaving his curls in disarray. "I - uh, no." He sighed, resignedly. "Why do you even ask? You know what I'm working on."

Don shook his head. "Charlie, if it's the Tuttle investigation, you need to drop it. It's a done deal. If anything, Ralph Nardek's involvement puts Tuttle even more in the clear. You read Tuttle's statement when they questioned him about Audrey and Nardek's assault on us – he said that he was out of the country and they were acting on their own, and Colby verified that. Tuttle even accused Nardek of working with Jim Montague on the money laundering scheme."

"It's a lie, and you know it," retorted Charlie, hotly. "I mean, maybe Nardek was in on it, but you know Tuttle was calling the shots."

"I'm not so sure, anymore, Charlie," said Don slowly. "While you were in the hospital, we found that Nardek had siphoned off some of Tuttle's money into accounts for him and Audrey, remember? It sure looks like Nardek was behind it all along. We just wanted it to be Tuttle, because we knew he was dirty once, and so we figured he was again. Well, maybe he's wised up."

Charlie snorted. "Right. He's wised up – he's gotten even better at lying." His expression turned earnest, almost pleading. "I've got some stuff going now – I'm doing searches - digging into some of the people that surround Tuttle – and those connections are giving me leads on some others. If I can link one of them to the original electronic theft, I might be able to work my way back to Tuttle. There are so many unanswered questions, like what happened to Aaron Shulman -,"

"LAPD already ruled on that one, Charlie – they think it was a drive-by gang initiation," Don interrupted flatly. He had enough guilt going over what had happened to Charlie – he sure didn't need to feel responsible for Aaron Shulman's shooting, and his resulting partial paralysis – even though Shulman looked rather eerily like him. Don was more than happy to think that LAPD was right.

"But what if it wasn't?" Charlie persisted. "What if that was meant to be you – what if it was Tuttle, trying to clean house?"

"If that was the case, Charlie, it would be even more reason for you to stop what you're doing. If Tuttle knew that you were still trying to dig up dirt on him -," Don's voice had risen, and he was suddenly aware that Alan had come into the dining room, behind him. He lowered his voice, and tried to speak calmly. Damn, Charlie could be infuriating. "Look, Charlie, Dad made a good dinner – we're having a nice night – just humor me, okay? Come in and watch the hockey game with us – I promise I won't even tell you to be quiet when you start reciting statistics on the success rate of pulling the goalie."

Charlie glanced back longingly at his computer, and opened his mouth as if to retort, but then sighed, and closed it, and looked back at Don with a rueful smile. "Yeah, you're right. Sure. Who's playing?"

"It's the playoffs – Blackhawks and Flyers." Don turned and headed toward the living room, with just the faintest wink at his father.

Charlie trailed behind them. "Oh, it'll be the Blackhawks, for sure. They're gonna go all the way."

Alan snorted in mock disapproval. "Okay, pipe down, Mr. See-all. I'd like the outcome to be something of a surprise."

Charlie was trying a little too hard, Don thought – maybe feeling bad about the argument – and the thought put a bit of a smile on his face. Yes, they were slowly working their way back to normal. He had a sneaking suspicion, however, that Charlie was simply humoring him – Charlie didn't give up on anything that easily – especially when he was sure he was right.

**…..**

Don's own change of heart on the subject happened on Wednesday, the very next afternoon. Across their section of bullpen, Colby Granger hung up the phone at his desk and immediately rose, and headed toward Don with a purposeful stride. At first, Don thought maybe Colby had gotten a call from David, and he braced himself for – he wasn't sure what – Colby looked anything but relaxed. He realized his assumption was way off, when Colby said, "Just got a call from LADP. They said Ralph Nardek wants to talk."

"Talk," Don repeated, a bit blankly.

Colby nodded. "Yeah. They've had him in the holding unit at Victorville while awaiting trial, and apparently he's had enough of prison, or time to think, or both. His lawyer got hold of LAPD today, and told them that Nardek would give them info for a deal."

Don snorted. "Info on what? They got him dead to rights – his DNA evidence, his prints…," his voice trailed off, as he remembered what that evidence was found on – a set of brass knuckles that had been used to pummel his younger brother. "And why would LAPD call us, anyway? That's an issue for the DA."

"Not info on himself," Colby explained patiently. He dropped his voice. "Info on our buddy - J. Everett."

Don stared at him. "Tuttle," he breathed. Then his scowl reasserted itself. "It's probably a bunch of B.S. Nardek'll say anything to reduce his sentence."

"Maybe," said Colby. "But we won't know until we talk to him. LAPD knew we had the investigation on Tuttle originally – that's why they called us." He cocked his head. "Don't you want to hear what he has to say?"

Don hesitated, feeling oddly reluctant. Ordinarily he would have jumped at the chance, but it seemed that anything dealing with Tuttle had been nothing but bad news for them – and they were still no closer to pinning him down than when they'd started. His mind drifted to Charlie, pounding away on his computer the last evening when Don had walked into his house, working like a man obsessed. Information from Nardek would be like fuel on the fire, where Charlie was concerned. On the other hand; there might be a chance to finally put Tuttle where he belonged, where he could no longer hurt anyone…

"Yeah, Colby – tell 'em, yeah. Set up a meeting."

**….**

Derek Mace leaned his big, muscular frame against the chain link fence surrounding the basketball court, and offered a cigarette to the tall, wiry black man next to him. Rashad Venable, known by most as V-tek, lit his cigarette, took a drag, and sent a jaundiced eye toward the players on the court. "So what you got?" His voice was flat, quiet, and stone cold.

Mace took a long pull on his own cigarette. "I need something done in Unit 2."

Victorville Federal Penitentiary was organized into six separate V-shaped units, and Mace was the recognized leader of his unit – and arguably the most influential prisoner housed at the prison – at least as far as the other inmates were concerned. The prisoners from each unit didn't interface much. They were usually let outside separately for exercise, and although they were brought together two units at a time for mealtime, they were under intense scrutiny. In addition, Mace's unit never took meals with Unit 2 – which was the unit that held his quarry – Ralph Nardek. Unit 2 was under the control of V-tek, and Mace only had one opportunity to meet with him, and that was on the basketball court. A team from Mace's unit was playing Unit 2 today, and only inmates who had earned privileges were allowed to play, or watch.

V-tek never looked at him, just took another drag, holding the cigarette like a joint, and pulled at his scrawny wisp of a beard. That meant he was listening, and Mace went on. "There's a guy in there named Nardek. Ralph."

V-tek gave a slight, indifferent nod as one of the players dribbled past them. It looked as though he was acknowledging the player, but the nod was for Mace. "He's in holdin'. Little nerdy shit."

He meant the holding cells, where prisoners accused of federal crimes but not yet tried were held until their trial dates. "Yeah," said Mace. "I need him taken out – and it can't get back to me."

"What's in it for me?" V-tek glanced at him for the first time.

"You know your sister's bank account? The one she keeps for you? Well, she's gonna come into a bunch of money from your deceased aunt Raline. There's more than enough for you, and for whoever you want to hire for the job."

V-tek scowled at him. "How you know my bizness?" he asked sharply.

Mace smiled and flicked the butt of his cigarette aside. The aunt was fictional, but the sister, and the account, weren't. Furthermore, the account wasn't really the sister's – she kept it for V-tek. "I know everything," Mace said softly, putting his face right in V-tek's personal space. He held his gaze, smiling.

V-tek scowled, but he backed up a step and his own gaze faltered. He looked back at the game, and shrugged in agreement. "So. It might take a day, maybe two."

"Good," said Mace, and he simply turned, and sauntered away. Prison deals didn't warrant handshakes, or fist bumps, or any other outward sign of a pact. In fact, to any bystander more than a few feet away, it was hardly apparent that they'd spoken, until the very end of the conversation, and that had looked like a potential fight in the making, which was just the way that Mace wanted it. At the other end of the court he paused, took a big breath of air, and surveyed the Victorville grounds. He was king here, and everyone knew it.

**….**

Colby Granger left at his usual time that evening – after about an hour of casual overtime, which he normally worked every day that there wasn't a hot case. Hot cases warranted more overtime, sometimes hours, even days on end. Normal days, like this, though, Colby worked an extra hour or so, and headed out. He'd usually make for the gym, followed by a stop for some takeout, and then head for his apartment, for a little veg session. Maybe take in the news, which he recorded daily, or a game on TV, maybe have a beer, maybe not. In the old days, he and David would have gone out at least three nights a week – some nights for some basketball or racket-ball, some nights for a beer. Some nights for both. Now, it was just him.

The parking garage attached to the high-rise building that held the FBI offices was one of the safest spots in LA – even the really dumb criminals stayed away from a parking lot that close to a big FBI office. Still, like any parking garage, it was a little on the dim side, with pillars and cars and all kinds of hiding spots, and the agent and former soldier in Colby was always aware of his surroundings, especially in a place like that. That's why he was doubly surprised when a figure suddenly stepped out from behind a pillar. Where the hell had the guy come from? He just –

"David?" Colby's train of thought, and the clenching of his fist, came to an abrupt halt. He stopped dead, and stared across six feet of space at his former partner.

"Hey, Colby." David's voice was quiet and even, but he rubbed the back of his head nervously. "How've you been?"

"Good," responded Colby automatically, before the oddness of the situation could alter his response. "What are you doing here?"

"I – ah, I – well, I'd kind of like to talk to you about that. Can you – uh – did you have any plans? I thought maybe we could go out somewhere – grab a beer…"

Colby stared at him. It was true, they hadn't left on good terms, but most of the animosity had been on David's part. He'd been ticked off that Colby had become involved in the Eppes brother's covert investigation, and hadn't clued him in. At the time, Colby had been sworn to secrecy, and David's anger over something Colby couldn't really control had left Colby a little miffed, himself. As time had worn on, though, he had given the matter a lot of thought, and concluded that if he were David, he probably would have felt the same way. After all, David had known both Don and Charlie longer than Colby had, and leaving him out of the loop had implied distrust. David, on the other hand, hadn't been quite as forgiving, and Colby wondered what had generated his visit. "Yeah, uh – I mean no, I wasn't doing anything special. A beer sounds great."

David relaxed a little, and a grin lit up his face. "Good. Where to?"

"How about the usual?" asked Colby, trying to push away the warm little feeling that was starting inside. This man was no longer his partner, no longer his best friend. He was just a former acquaintance. _Keep the expectations low_…

He actually was doing a pretty good job of that, he thought to himself, keeping his distance emotionally, playing it cool as they parked their vehicles and walked toward the bar. _Just like old times, just like normal…._ He pushed the thought out of his head, and they took a booth in the bar and ordered beers. He was doing such a good job of beating his expectations down that when the beers came and the waitress left, and David said, "So what would you think about being partners again?" that Colby choked on his swig of beer, and coughed until tears came to his eyes.

David was watching him anxiously, and as Colby finally composed himself and wiped his eyes, David said, "I didn't figure I would make you cry."

That made a bubble of laughter rise up in Colby's throat, and he choked a little again, still wiping his eyes. "Shit. I think it went up my nose. So, what in the hell are you talking about, anyway?"

David shrugged. His expression was somber, but there was just a bit of a twinkle in his eyes. "I had some time to think in D.C. – about the home and friends I left behind – not to mention the best partner I ever had. The funding fell through for our task team, and they offered me a job there, but I didn't want it. I asked to come back here, and Wright offered me a job – not team leader or anything, just special agent, part of the team." Colby's silence dampened the twinkle in his eyes, and he continued, a bit anxiously. "I wouldn't blame you – I mean, don't feel like we have to partner – I can partner with anyone – Liz or Nikki – I guess I'm not sure how you guys are set up, these days -,"

"Like hell," said Colby, and David's jaw dropped in dismay. Colby grinned. "Like hell I would let my partner team up with anyone else. We were the best team in L.A."

A slow smile lit up David's face, and he grabbed his mug and raised it, clinking it against Colby's. "Well, then, here's to the best team in L.A."

"Damn straight," said Colby. This time the beer went down right, cool, but warm in the gut, like the feeling that good friends generated. He grinned wolfishly. "The bad guys better watch out."

**…..**

End, Chapter 4


	5. Good Times For One and All

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 5: Good Times for One and All**

**…..**

Alan smiled fondly as he caught sight of David and Colby on his way from the kitchen. The once-again partners stood near the koi pond. Each clutched a bottle of beer in one hand; occasionally, the other hand would gesticulate wildly when its owner became particularly animated. Alan reached the barbecue, and offered Don a platter of marinated rib eye. He'd planned the cookout at the last minute, for Thursday evening – the evening of David's first day back – but in spite of the short notice, no one had declined the invitation, except Robin. "I'm glad things worked out so that David could come back and be part of the team," he said.

Don began to spear steaks onto the grill. "Yeah," he answered, aiming a quick glance in their direction. His face softened into a smile. "It's like David never left. Things are better between him and Colby than they have been since the whole Chinese incident." He snickered. "I think they're trading war stories. Colby is describing every case we've worked in the last several weeks. David's got some pretty funny stories about trying to pick his team, before funding went kaput."

"I, for one, am happy to hear that it did," stated Alan emphatically. "David belongs here in L.A. with us." Don nodded, still smiling, and Alan decided his eldest was in a peaceful enough mood for him to bring up a risky subject. "Robin couldn't join us tonight?"

Immediately, Don's expression changed. His face darkened, and his smile became a frown. "I invited her," he said tersely. "She said she's really busy trying to tie up some local cases before she leaves in a couple of weeks for Dallas."

Alan tried to ignore the subtext. "Sounds like she'll be leaving around the same time Amita gets back," he mentioned.

Don slapped the last steak on the grill with a little more force than necessary. "The same day, actually."

Alan made a noise of surprise. "You're kidding. Maybe you, Robin and Charlie can carpool to LAX."

Don closed the lid of the barbecue and picked up his own beer from the attached side table. "Her office probably already booked a limo," he said, shrugging before he took a long draw from his beer. Lowering the bottle, he changed the subject. "Where's everybody else?"

Alan decided not to jeopardize the mood of the evening, and allowed himself to be distracted from the topic of Robin. "Charlie and Larry are carrying side dishes from the kitchen to the picnic table," he answered. "Liz is trying to set the table around them, and Nikki doesn't seem to be doing much of anything — except lounging at the kitchen table, supervising a tall glass of lemonade."

Don laughed. "She'd be out here out-drinking every last one of us if she and Liz weren't on call tonight. Probably trying to stay away from temptation."

"Doesn't sound like the Nikki I know," said Alan wryly. "Doesn't she usually embrace temptation?"

Don sputtered a mouthful of beer onto the closed grill, and the metal began to hiss and smoke. Both men took a few steps back. "Now look what you've done," teased Don.

Alan coughed and waved the now-empty plate. "I'd better go check on the others," he said, turning toward the back of the Craftsman. "Someone may have found my cherry pie."

**...**

Vito Garducci reverently touched the worn black-and-white photo of his daughter. This was the fourth prison, the sixth cell, in which the tattered image had lived. Even during his stints in solitary, Vito had managed to hang onto the picture. Sometimes a cellmate guarded his few precious belongings for him; sometimes everything was thrown into a box by prison officials for "safekeeping". Something was always missing when Vito was reunited with his belongings, but remarkably, he had never lost the photograph.

She was seven years old in the photo - which had been taken almost thirty years earlier. She was probably married and had children of her own by now, but in Vito's mind she was suspended in time. He had never married her mother, and had only obtained the photo because his cousin Louie tracked the girl down, and took a Polaroid of her in her school's playground. Louie owed Vito; Vito had never ratted him out, even though Louie was driving the night Vito robbed the liquor store and offed the clerk. Still, after getting the photo to Vito, Louie had disappeared. Vito had never heard from him again. Sometimes, that made him angry. He would think about talking. But then he would look at Carmella, and know that he would not have her if not for Louie — and he would keep his mouth shut.

Carmella was a wealthy woman, Vito believed, and it was all because of him. Inside the prison system, he had soon become an Enforcer. He would kill anyone, for the right price, and he was good at it. Twice, he had killed his own cellmates, making their deaths look like suicides. He had felt bad about that last one; poor kid was only 25 years old…but Vito had locked his eyes on Carmella's image and squeezed the life out of him anyway, before he hung him by a strip of sheet. He only did jobs for people who could pay, and only after he saw that a deposit had been made into Carmella's bank account. In all these years, it had never occurred to him that the account he had asked Louie, before he disappeared, to start in Carmella's name, wouldn't just miraculously find her. Vito never made it past third grade; he never even put together Louie's disappearance with the new bank account. He had no idea that his hard-earned money was actually making his cousin Louie rich. He was killing for Carmella; like any good father, he was taking care of his child.

He was an effective prison assassin, because he didn't particularly care if he got caught – at least, as long he could claim mitigating circumstances, such as self-defense – and leave just enough doubt to keep him from being sent to death row. He was already serving a life term, so he'd always have a roof over his head and food in his gut, either way. It didn't hurt his status among the other inmates, either. When everybody knew what you were capable of, you got respect. And referrals. It was a referral that had led to his current job. V-tek brought him the job: Derek Mace in Unit 1 wanted that geek who worked in the library taken out. Vito didn't need to know why; he didn't care. The money had been generous, and prompt.

He approached a guard, and asked him to deliver a message to the prison's social caseworker. "I ain't too smart," Vito said. "I want me some of that tutorin." The guard had lifted an eyebrow but had filled out the appropriate form, got it into the right mailbox, and two days later had appeared in front of Vito's cell.

"Dumb luck," he sneered. "Caseworker's getting ready for vacation, so he's tryin' to clean up his inbox. You could've waited three months for this...report to the library at 0300. We got another inmate in charge of the tutorin' program now; he'll do an assessment and assign you a tutor." The guard turned on his heel to leave. "Name's Nardek," he tossed over his shoulder. "Don't be late."

Vito smiled at Carmella as he reverently touched the photograph. "This is for you, sweetie," he whispered. "Daddy's doing this for you."

**...**

Charlie swallowed a chunk of rib eye and grinned across the picnic table, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. "I can't believe you're actually here," he said. "I heard you've been in L.A. a few days. I've been trying to return your call."

David's white teeth flashed. "Yeah; sorry about that, Charlie. I've been meaning to get back with you – I've been pretty busy." He gestured at Colby, with a teasing grin. "Trying to get back on this guy's good side."

Colby snorted. "Like you had to worry about me," he opined. "Is there anymore corn? This stuff is incredible."

Alan laughed and passed a serving dish down the line. "I like it, myself. I'd never had grilled corn before last summer; Amita actually taught me how to make it."

Colby grabbed two more ears. "Multi-talented woman," he murmured, and Nikki giggled.

"Loving that professor vibe you've got going on," she said to Charlie. "Your specs. Don't you usually wear contacts?"

Don noted with relief that the mention of Amita's name didn't seem to bother his brother. "He wears glasses a lot at home," he answered for Charlie. "The contacts are mostly for school, right?"

"Right," Charlie agreed. He reddened slightly. "I suppose it's vain to care one way or the other, but I can't help it. I just don't want my students to think I've changed, I guess."

"Students are in a constant state of rotation," Liz pointed out. "You get a new batch every year; and others leave."

"A fact I have mentioned to Charles on more than one occasion," interjected Larry drily.

Charlie laughed along with everyone else at the table. "I know, I know," he said. "Maybe I just have to get used to the glasses. I still see myself in a mirror and wonder who that guy is."

"Is there any more potato salad?" Colby interrupted.

Don shoved a bowl at him. "Knock yourself out," he said. "I hope you can still move tomorrow. Remember, we're going to Victorville." He knew he shouldn't have said it as soon as it came out.

Charlie looked both apprehensive and interested. "Victorville? Why?" The group at the table fell silent as everyone looked at Don for a cue. They had discussed inviting Charlie to join them when they went to interview Nardek, but no decision had been reached. "What?"

Don was torn. He knew it was vital that his brother still feel useful and important to the team - and he was, especially regarding this case. He'd spent more time researching Tuttle than any of them, and he'd suffered the worst consequences. As a cop, Don coveted Charlie's take on the interview and the evidence Nardek had promised. As a big brother who had lived through the last year with Charlie, he wanted the guy encased in shrink wrap, as far away from anything concerning Tuttle as he could get. He looked at his father, but Alan had no idea what was going on, so he was no help. Finally, Don sighed and laid his knife and fork down on the table. He'd let Charlie decide; he owed him that much, at least. "Nardek wants to see us," he announced. "He's offering to deal; give us Tuttle."

Charlie's eyes widened. "You're kidding."

Don could feel Alan glaring at him, but he sighed again and pressed on. "You could come along, if you want. Evaluate the evidence he says he has."

"Or, you can wait and do that here in L.A. We'll bring whatever he gives us into the office. You don't have to go to the interview," David offered.

Don glanced at him gratefully, and offered a quick smile of appreciation. He looked back at Charlie. His brother was pale, but he seemed composed. "Will you be alone in a room with him?" he asked.

Alan suddenly stood. "Absolutely not," he declared, climbing out of the picnic table. He continued talking as he strode to stand behind Charlie. "I'm surprised at you, Don. Haven't this Tuttle and his people put your brother through enough? No. This ends now." He let a hand rest on Charlie's shoulder.

Charlie raised his own hand to touch his father's and lifted his head. "Dad," he said softly. "Don wouldn't let me go if it wasn't safe. We're talking about a federal prison, here."

Don looked at his father guiltily. "There are interview rooms," he said, "guards. David, Colby and I will all be there, armed. But David's right. Charlie can wait and look at the evidence after we bring it back to the city."

Alan's grip tightened on Charlie's shoulder. "I'm not sure that's a good idea either," he started, but Charlie interrupted.

"Dad," he said firmly. "I'm fine. I need to face this. I need to end this. I want to go."

Alan glared at Don over the top of Charlie's head and released his grip on Charlie's shoulder. "You're both obsessed," he said, turning toward the house. He muttered under his breath, "No wonder Amita left."

**...**

Ralph Nardek never even saw it coming.

One second he was leaning over Vito Garducci, reading a test question to him, and the next second he was on the floor, gaping like a fish, hand wrapped around the shiv that protruded from his chest.

The other inmates ran from the library – although they had seen him do it, Vito was certain they wouldn't rat him out; it would be dangerous to their well-being. V-tek had made sure that everyone in his block abided by a code of silence – or suffered the consequences. Vito leaned over Nardek and clapped a beefy hand over his mouth and nose, completely cutting off his air supply. "Derek Mace sent me," he whispered into the dying Nardek's ear. "He sends his love." He wiped his fingerprints from the shiv and left it in Nardek's body, then ran out in the hall. The guard stationed outside hadn't even thought to come inside yet – he was too busy trying to corral the prisoners in the hallway. By the time he figured out that something had happened in the library, Vito was outside with the rest of them. He stood, shifting impatiently from foot to foot, until other guards arrived, and they were led back to their cells. Once back inside, he laid on his bed, and took a deep breath. There would be an investigation, but he was sure they wouldn't get anywhere with it. "Got another one, Carmella," he said softly, and grinned at the ceiling.

**...**

"Sorry," said Colby, to no one in particular – mostly to break the silence after Alan had stalked away. "We maybe could have handled that better."

"It's all right." Charlie answered before Don had quite gathered his thoughts, and Don looked up in surprise. In spite of everything he felt a flush of pride when he heard his brother's steady voice. Charlie caught his eye and dimpled a grin and a wink in his direction. "He'll calm down; I'll talk to him later. Bring out the drowning puppy look, if I have to."

Don groaned. "Dad has never come out on the winning end of that look."

"Who _has_?" asked Larry, and everyone laughed.

"The good news," said Charlie, looking in Colby's direction, "is that Dad left his pie out here, cooling. We still have pie."

Colby's eyes brightened and he looked hungrily at the pie that was slowly being passed his way. "Maybe we can send one of the women in for ice cream?" he asked.

"Hey!" protested Nikki. "Do your own dirty work, Granger!" Then she kicked him lightly under the table.

"Ow!" grunted Colby. "I'm just saying that he's a gentleman; less likely to hurt a lady. Besides, you've both got guns."

David laughed and stood. "I'll go for the ice cream," he volunteered. "I need to stretch my legs anyway." The cell phone clipped to his belt rang just as David cleared the table. "Excuse me," he murmured, wandering away a few feet.

At nearly the same moment, Liz groaned, and all eyes turned toward her. She was holding up her own cell and looking at Nikki. "We've got a call." Don's phone was also buzzing simultaneously, and he was already pulling it from his pocket.

Nikki snatched the phone from her own belt and glanced at it. "Damn thing doesn't ring half the time," she complained. "Yep; got a voice mail."

The two women started to work out of the picnic table when Colby reached for his belt. "This must be big," Don mused, flipping open his own cell. "Eppes," he barked into the unit, bumping into Colby as they both tried to stand at the same time. Colby fell back with a grunt, then scrambled to stand again. Don strode away, the phone to his ear.

Larry regarded the agents scattering across the darkening yard and grabbed Charlie's arm as Colby began to rise. "I suggest we stand," he said. "The table will tip over soon." As it was, the two professors barely got to their feet in time to stop a catastrophe.

Charlie was congratulating Larry's powers of deductive reasoning when Don's team began to surround the picnic table again. Charlie looked from one grim face to the next, and became unaccountably afraid. "What is it?" he asked. He was half-certain that someone would tell him that Don had been shot, even though his brother had been with him all evening, and even then was walking briskly across the lawn toward him. "What is it?" he repeated as Don drew near.

Don tossed his phone onto the table with a thud. "Nardek," he growled. "Somebody shanked Nardek. He just died in the prison infirmary."

**...**

End, Chapter 5


	6. A Force To Be Reckoned With

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 6: A Force to be Reckoned With**

**…..**

Don had a headache, and he was in a bad mood.

The bad mood was courtesy of Robin. First she had skipped his father's dinner the evening before; then she had been curt and distant when Don had called her later. Not only did she not invite him over, she said that she was contemplating going to Dallas a few days early, even if she had to use some vacation time to do it. He had tried to tell her about Nardek, but she had interrupted impatiently. "I think we've all invested enough of our lives into that, don't you?" Don didn't know if she had been talking to Amita or to Alan, but she damn well wasn't talking to him, much. He had gone to bed angry; frustrated; hurt - although he'd never admit that last one to anyone, least of all himself - and had awoken in a sour mood.

The headache appeared about four hours after David and Colby brought all of Nardek's personal effects back to the office. The entire team had been combing through the five boxes ever since, and no one had found anything even remotely interesting. If Nardek had really intended to share some information with them, it was information he kept in his head. There were notes about his appeal, notes about a book he thought he might write, magazine articles about tutoring and how to survive life on the inside. There were scribbles about the state-run nursing home where Audrey Paris had ended up; that was a little interesting, but just because everything else was so boring. So Nardek wanted to know where his ex-comrade, ex-lover was; big deal. It wasn't as if he could get much help by implicating her. Everybody already knew Audrey was involved up to her ears, so who cared? Maybe Nardek wanted to know where she was so he could arrange a hit on her. At this point, Don didn't really care about that, either.

In fact, the degree to which the knowledge of a possible hit did not affect him, made him wish he could have a long talk with Rabbi Shulman. He missed his glasses of tea with the older man, but Shulman was spending a lot of his time with his son, these days - and Don couldn't begrudge him that. He had heard that Aaron Shulman was still not functioning normally after his gunshot wound. He apparently wasn't walking, and had significant paralysis in his dominant arm. He, like Charlie, had been blinded in one eye by the bullet that had lodged in his head. Even though word was the blindness was likely temporary, the paralysis wasn't. He would probably lose his practice - he certainly couldn't operate any longer. What a waste. As Don thought about the Shulmans, his headache grew worse. He barely registered Colby's words.

"Hey, Whiz Kid. What's up?"

Don lifted bleary eyes to see his brother standing in the doorway of the conference room, clutching his laptop. "Charlie," he said wearily, and with slight impatience. "I just talked to you on the phone two hours ago. There's nothing here, man. If Nardek ever really had anything for us, it died with him." He threw a paperback novel into one of the boxes where it landed with a thud, and pushed himself away from the table, standing. "We've got to give this up, man. Both of us." He glanced around the table, at his team. "_All _of us." The team members shifted their gazes from him, to Charlie, to each other.

Nikki was the first to stand. She dropped a file folder in the nearest box. "I could do with an early night," she said. "Liz and I took two crime scenes last night. Didn't get any sleep."

"Poor baby," Colby teased, standing himself.

"Wait!" Charlie insisted. "I found something."

"Charlie..." Both Don's facial expression and his tone of voice held warning.

Charlie ignored him, striding into the room and placing his laptop on the table, in front of David. He flipped the lid open, leaned over the table and started keying in commands. "I hacked into Nardek's phone records," he started.

Colby whistled softly, coming to stand behind Charlie and peer over his shoulder. "Dude. Are you sure you want to admit that to a roomful of federal agents?"

"There," Charlie announced triumphantly, ignoring Agent Granger. "Two days before, one day before, and the day of Aaron Shulman's shooting. Repeated calls to Steve Johnson."

Don crossed to the end of the table and slammed down the lid of Charlie's computer. "_So what_?" he practically yelled. "LAPD ruled Shulman's shooting a drive-by, and "Steve Johnson" means nothing to me. Just stop, Charlie!"

Charlie's expression, briefly stunned, soon darkened into anger. He straightened until he was looking his brother in the eye. "LAPD has been wrong once or twice," he remarked. "Shulman had come from your apartment, it was getting dark, he looks like you, and he went to a location you frequent. And Steve Johnson is on the FBI's own tap list, he's a known enforcer. Right, Liz?"

All eyes turned to Agent Warner. She reddened, and held up her hands. "Hey," she said, "He didn't tell me why he wanted to know. Charlie called earlier and gave me a name, said he'd been tracing this guy and run into an FBI firewall; I just assumed the search was related to a case we had him consulting on - I mean, I didn't know of any consults off-hand, but Charlie works with other teams here in the office. A quick check kicked out a Steve "Spike" Johnson. He's got a record a mile long, but I didn't have time to check it all out. Colby and David were coming in with these boxes. I just confirmed that someone in the Bureau has a tap on Johnson."

Eyes swiveled back to Charlie. "I used my access code," he said, and Don's expression grew even grimmer. "Spike Johnson is a known associate of J. Everett Tuttle. The tap was put on his line by none other than Assistant Director Phil Wright, two weeks before Dr. Shulman's shooting. Apparently I'm not the only one who thinks this isn't finished."

The agents looked on in stunned silence as Don leaned forward and placed his face inches away from Charlie's. "It is for _you_," he said softly, through clenched teeth. "You give whatever it is you think you found to Colby and David, and then you get the hell out of here before I knock you on your arrogant ass. I will pull your credentials if I have to, do you understand me? That is, if Wright doesn't do it first." Charlie swallowed visibly, and nodded. Don held his gaze for another moment before he headed for the door. He glanced back at the still-silent agents gathered around the table. "Take everything off that computer associated with this case," he ordered. "I'll be in Wright's office."

**...**

Paully Manorelli sat at an outdoor cafe, hunched over a cup of black coffee, alert eyes watching the sidewalk and the street at the same time. A man so beefy he almost split the seams of his worn gray t-shirt suddenly sat down opposite him. "Hey, Paully," he greeted, his voice nervous.

"Shut the hell up," Manorelli replied, frowning. "Using my name in public." He placed the paper coffee cup on the surface of the table. "I thought we agreed to lay low for a while. And why the hell did you pick this place? You know how hard it is to get a regular cuppa Joe, here?"

Dominic's mouth twitched briefly. "That's why I picked it," he answered. "Who's going to think anything of a couple of guys sitting around outside a Starbuck's, drinking latte?"

Paully snorted. "You're so delicate. So why did you contact me?"

Dominic shrugged, looked around, then leaned forward a little over the table. "Did you see the morning papers?"

"Sports section," answered Manorelli. "Why? You want some action on the Lakers?"

His associate frowned. "That guy - when we did that job for Spike - what was his name, again?"

Paully slowly rotated his coffee cup. "I ain't really sure," he admitted. "I mean, I know who called Spike, but that guy used to be connected to...to somebody else, a force here in L.A. Spike said this...this... Ralph Nard- something, gave him the job, but Ralph said he got _his _orders from Tuttle."

Dominic paled dramatically. "Shit," he whispered. "Tuttle? We messed up a job for Tuttle?"

"That's one reason I thought we should lay low," admitted Paully.

Dominic laid a beefy hand on the surface of the table, as if to brace himself. "Was the guy who called Spike named 'Nardek'?"

Paully took a sip of coffee before he answered. "Sounds good. Yeah, I think so. Ralph. I remember the Ralph part."

Dom sighed. "That's him. Somebody shanked him in Victorville yesterday. Word is, he had an appointment to talk to some cops, but he bought the shiv first." He looked at Paully meaningfully. "You know Victorville, doncha? Derek Mace is there."

Manorelli lowered the cup to the table so quickly that coffee splashed out and burned his hand. "Son of a bitch," he remarked, pulling his hand back quickly.

Dominic nodded grimly. "We need to do something to fix this, before T...before we're gone, too. Maybe we should talk to Spike."

It was Paully's turn to pale. "I tried to call him, see if he had anything for me so I could make a little dough. He's still pretty pissed about that botched job, even though we gave the money back."

"Maybe we can offer to make it right," Dominic mused. "For nothing. It could be sweet for us; keep Spike and Tuttle from getting rid of us, and show them what we can do. Now that Mace and so many of the others are out of the picture, Tuttle's got to be putting together some new...employees."

Paully looked interested. "Not a bad idea. Beats hiding the rest of our sorry lives, anyway."  
>He took another sip of coffee. "Better get yourself something strong and black," he advised. "We got some plannin' to do."<p>

**...**

Philip Wright regarded the barely controlled agent before him.

Eppes was steaming. Wright had certainly seen Don hit the boiling mark before, but that Don Eppes was positively frigid in comparison to this one. This one had family to protect: it was a whole new level of fierce.

"Just calm down," advised Wright, remaining passively behind his desk. "Have a seat."

Don remained standing. "I asked you what the hell is going on." he growled.

Wright sighed. "Frankly, Agent, I'd forgotten about that tap. I put it on at the request of the DEA – they thought that Spike Johnson was involved in some drug trafficking. During the course of their surveillance, it turned up that he had been seen with Ralph Nardek on occasion – which put possibly put him low in the Tuttle organization. With Mace in Victorville and so many of Tuttle's other lieutenants in prison or dead, I thought maybe Tuttle would reach out to Johnson; maybe move him up. I couldn't swing an international tap on Tuttle without probable, so I left the tap on Johnson."

Don crossed his arms over his chest. "And the Assistant Director of the Los Angeles branch of the Federal Bureau of Investigation just _forgot_ about a tap he ordered. A tap you must be getting at least monthly transcripts on."

Wright lifted an eyebrow and glanced at a stack of papers on the corner of his desk. "I deal with quite a bit of paperwork, Agent Eppes. But I'll admit; I found the transcripts interesting reading, even though I never saw evidence of a Tuttle connection. Still, I probably would have terminated the tap the next time I received a report and remembered the damn thing." He straightened in his chair. "By the way, exactly how did Charlie get into the system?"

Don rolled his eyes and dropped heavily into the chair opposite Philip Wright's desk. "You'll have to ask him," he muttered. "I'd do it for you, but I might shoot him on sight."

Wright smiled. "Indeed."

Don sighed. "Did he really find something? Is this nightmare still not over?"

Wright tented his fingers under his chin, and began to recline slowly back in his chair. "Your brother," he deadpanned, "is a very resourceful fellow."

**...**

Robin regarded Alan over her salad. "I'm not sure what I can do," she said. "You know that I'm leaving soon for Dallas. Besides, Don doesn't seem very receptive to my opinions, lately."

Alan reached across the table to take her hand in his. "Sweetheart, you know that's how he deals with frustration, a case gone bad - and that's just a normal case. This is J. Everett Tuttle; the man he believes is responsible for trying to kill him and his brother. Believe me; I don't want either of them stirring up this hornet's nest any more than you do. I just need some back-up, if I'm going to convince them to let it go and move on. Amita's gone, but she's coming back soon."

"I wouldn't count on a lot of sympathy from that corner," commented Robin. "She left in the first place because she'd endured enough of this Tuttle nightmare. If she finds out Charlie is still working on it, she'll be on the next flight out." She tossed her hair indignantly. "And I just might be sitting beside her."

Stricken, Alan let go of her hand and blinked rapidly, seeming to age before her eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I know this has been difficult for everyone. That's why I was hoping you'd help me to convince Don to let this go."

Robin softened. "Alan, I would if I could. As a prosecutor, I know what it feels like when someone you're sure is guilty walks away; part of me knows why Don and Charlie are doing this - even though a bigger part of me is terrified that Don and Charlie are doing this." She hesitated, regarded her salad for a moment and then looked back up. "Forgive me for saying this, but I think your main problem is Charlie. I think Don would love to see this all go away - but he's afraid of what Charlie will get himself into."

"That's what I thought, too," said Alan, "until Don asked Charlie to go with him to Victorville, to interview Ralph Nardek. Now I think that neither one of them can let it go."

Robin sighed, and considered her words. "Look," she finally said. "I've sort-of been avoiding Don, but I'll give it another go. We need to talk before I leave for Dallas, anyway. I'll see what I can do. Fair enough?"

"More than fair enough," smiled Alan. He suddenly winked. "You, my dear, are a force to be reckoned with."

**...**

End, Chapter 6


	7. No Longer in the Game

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 7: No Longer in the Game**

**…..**

Spike Johnson knocked tentatively on the heavy door, and opened it when a muffled, 'yes,' issued from the other side. He didn't enter; instead, he poked his head in through the opening. "Mr. Tuttle?"

Tuttle scowled at him. "What? Don't pussyfoot around – walk in like a man, and say your piece."

Johnson straightened, chagrined. With Ralph Nardek gone, he now had the coveted role of Tuttle's right hand man – he had better start acting like it. He stepped in, and shut the door. "I've got a line on a coupla guys for the jobs you wanted done. They came to me – but I know 'em."

Tuttle eyed him. "Who?"

"Paully Manorelli, and his buddy, Dominic. They were hired to do the hits on the Eppes brothers, remember?"

Tuttle didn't even bother to argue – he couldn't 'remember' because he hadn't ordered that hit – Nardek had, on his own. He'd heard about the outcome from other contacts and from Spike himself afterward, however, and he said, "The idiots who hit the wrong guy? And you want to hire them back?"

Spike spread his hands earnestly. "It was an honest mistake. The guy did look a lot like Don Eppes, and he was at the synagogue. _I_ told 'em myself that the synagogue was one of the places he'd go. Look, the way I see it, they know too much – we either got to sign Paully and Dom up, or take 'em out, and we got no one to take 'em out with. They already know we ordered the hit on the Eppes brothers -, "

"I told you before," interrupted Tuttle, "_I_ didn't order that hit, Nardek did that on his own." Spike looked at him uncertainly, and Tuttle decided that he might as well have not spoken at all – he got the impression that Spike didn't really believe him, anyway. The fact was; Tuttle had ordered Mace to kill the Eppes brothers months ago – before Nardek got involved – so it didn't really do him much good to protest. He waved at Spike impatiently. "Go on."

"- anyhow, if Paully and Dom aren't in our camp, where we can keep an eye on 'em, then we don't have no control. If they decide to rat on us, we're done. Besides, we're a little low on help these days - we don't have anybody else we can trust. Paully and I go back a ways - an' the way I see it, we don't have a lot of options."

Tuttle pursed his lips, considering. "That was a convoluted round of logic – but strangely, it makes sense. Ok, I'll buy it – but if they don't work out, you need to take care of them yourself. You know what to tell them - pick up the Brooks woman first – she's here and available. I have information that Professor Ramanujan will be here in within the week – make sure they have Brooks before then. I'll give you instructions on how to handle Ramanujan when she gets here."

Spike let out a breath and nodded. "Yes, sir." He turned and walked out, back straight, head up. He'd made his case, walked in like a man and said his piece, just like Tuttle had said. Now he just had to hope that Paully and Dominic would come through, or gaining Tuttle's respect would be the least of his worries.

**….**

Don's gaze traveled anxiously over the patrons in the small pricey bistro, and he breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted Robin. He wasn't sure why he was afraid she'd stand him up – she'd invited him to lunch, after all – or maybe he was sure. He'd been an ass lately, and he knew it. She knew it, too, and he was getting the feeling that she had reached her limit. It had occurred to him a day or two ago that her upcoming trip to Dallas might be because of him, and he'd called her and tried to make a dinner date. She had declined, and then had declined his father's invitation for the cookout. That had really gotten Don to thinking - was she getting ready to pull an 'Amita'? Then she had called and said she'd meet him for lunch on the condition that he pay, and he jumped at her suggestion. From the looks of the tony place she'd picked, he realized that she was making sure he paid.

She tolerated a quick peck on the cheek and eyed him over the menu as he sat. He picked up his own menu and looked at her. "So, what's good here?"

"Just about everything." Her tone was light, and just a bit friendlier than he would have expected. "What are you in the mood for?"

He glanced down the list of salads, risottos, and stir-fry dishes until he got to something more substantial. "That Ranchero Burger looks good." _Whoa.__ For__ tha t__price, __it__ should __be._

The waitress showed up, he ordered the burger and fries, and Robin ordered lobster bisque soup and a blackened shrimp salad. Definitely – making him pay. This lunch was going to set him back more than their last three dinners out, combined. He was resigned to it, though – he deserved it, after the way he'd been treating her, and they both knew it.

"So," he said, after the waitress departed with their order, "you're heading for Dallas soon, huh?"

She nodded, and took a delicate sip of water. "Four days." She smiled a little. "I've already been working on the case with Peterson from here, but he's really nervous. He'd like it if I showed up even sooner."

Don's eyes narrowed, reflectively. "Peterson – I know a couple of the prosecutors out of that office, but I don't know him."

She shrugged. "He's a rookie – and all their senior folks are tied up on hot cases. He's actually not doing too bad – they just want someone with experience looking over his shoulder."

"There's lots of experience in your office. Why'd they send you?"

Her gaze was direct, and a bit challenging. "I volunteered."

He left that hot potato lay there; and instead moved directly to apology. "Look, Robin, I know I've been kind of an ass lately - ,"

An eyebrow arched. "_Kind_ of?"

She was not only making him pay, she was making him squirm. Gamely, he forged onward. "Well, yeah, okay, more than 'kind of.' I don't know what's up with me – I've just been out of sorts. I wanted to say 'I'm sorry.'"

He braced himself for the tirade, but all she did was sigh, and say, "I know. You've been through a lot lately; it's understandable."

Her response left him gaping; feeling like a rug had just been pulled out from under him. "I – uh… we're okay, then?"

She nodded, and waved a hand. "An apology, a nice lunch – we're okay."

His eyes narrowed again, this time in speculation, and he looked down at his plate to cover his confusion. That had been way too easy. He was left to wonder why for a while, and the conversation wandered off into safer topics until their food came. He dug into his burger while she finished her soup, and she began her slide into the topic with her next breath.

"I know you've been worried about Charlie, and everything he's been through. His eyesight – and then Audrey and Nardek nearly killed you both - ," her expression darkened and her voice dropped. "I should have taken her out when I got the chance."

A slight smile crept to his mouth. "Man, what I wouldn't give to have seen you tackling her in the hallway."

The dark look fled, and she blushed and smiled briefly, but then her expression turned serious again. "Don, you need to give this one up. For your sake; and for Charlie's."

Don sighed and shook his head. "Look, I know. I already had my guys unload everything concerning Tuttle from Charlie's laptop." He knew he should tell her that he wasn't quite done – that he was planning on checking out the Spike Johnson connection to Tuttle that Charlie had unearthed before he finally dropped the case, in addition to the Nardek angle – but he didn't want to push it. Chances were, nothing would come of that investigation; and it would all be over soon. Anyway, there was no way she would know…

She stared at him, a piece of shrimp hovering forgotten on her fork. "You had them unload stuff from his laptop? And he let you?"

Don shifted uncomfortably, remembering his rant in the office and the look on Charlie's face. Charlie had been shocked into silence – and had done nothing to stop Don's rather embarrassed agents when they searched his files. Hell, according to Colby, he'd politely answered their questions when they needed information. The Charlie of old would have grabbed his laptop and stalked out angrily – this one looked almost… frightened.

"Aw, geez."

Robin was staring at him. "What?"

Don poked at a French fry, ruefully. "I dunno – Charlie – I think I kind of – scared him into – complying. I was pretty pissed." He sighed. "Anyway, I fold. Tuttle will win, that's all."

Robin was silent, and for a moment just sat gazing at her salad. "I hate that," she finally said. "That he'll win." She raised her eyes to his. "But maybe it's time we cut our losses. Just let Tuttle be for a while – maybe he'll get cocky and make some other mistake."

Don nodded, and pursed his lips. "My dad put you up to this, didn't he?"

She stared at him, dumbfounded. "What – oh, hell. Yes." she said resignedly, but then her voice rose. "But I happen to completely agree with him," she stated firmly.

Don smiled and reached across the table for her hand. "That's okay. I do, too. Charlie was the one we needed to convince, and I think I took care of that."

They enjoyed the rest of their meal, and as they left the restaurant, Don draped an arm over Robin's shoulders, and left it there as they strolled toward their car. Things felt right again, and mentally, he breathed a sigh of relief. He was so content, so happy – so full of the sight and smell of her – that he didn't notice the car parked half a block down, and the two men watching them.

**…..**

Colby and David bent over Colby's computer, and stared at the screen. "Do you have any idea what that is?" asked David.

Colby shook his head, still gazing at the screen as if mesmerized. "No idea. It looks like some kind of program. I imagine only Charlie could tell us."

David straightened and rubbed a hand over his face. "I don't think I've ever seen Don that pissed. But what he thinks we're gonna do with some of this stuff – I guess I don't know."

Liz regarded them from her desk. "I don't think he cares what we do with it," she said. "I think he just wanted the stuff where Charlie couldn't get to it."

Nikki strolled over from her desk, and leaned on a file cabinet, scowling at no one in particular. "You mean you think Don's throwing in the towel on this one."

"Not exactly," Colby reminded her. "We're still supposed to check out the link between Spike Johnson and Tuttle, and to see if Nardek's death was connected to Tuttle."

Nikki shook her head, with just a trace of street attitude. "Yeah, and when that fizzles out, where will we be? Nowhere, that's where. Nowhere again, and that asshole Tuttle will walk. If I was Don, I don't think I could stand that. I just don't get it. Why wouldn't he want Charlie's help?"

"You have to admit," said Colby slowly, "that even with Charlie's help, they haven't gotten any closer to nailing him."

David stared at him. "You think that Don thinks he's been getting in the way?"

"I don't know," said Colby. "Maybe… maybe he thinks there's a little too much emotion on both their parts, and he's trying to create some distance, so he can look at things objectively."

A throat cleared behind them, and all four of them started and turned. "Excuse me," said Charlie quietly. He was trying to keep his features composed, but it was easy to see by the expression on his face that he'd overheard them. He held up a flash drive, awkwardly. "I think when you guys transferred the Tuttle files, you might have accidentally picked up a couple files that I need for school. I was wondering if I could get them back."

Colby reddened, glanced at his fellow agents, who looked just as embarrassed, and then said, "Uh, yeah, sure, Charlie. Which ones?"

Charlie stepped forward, tentatively, cocking his head. He was without glasses, so that meant he was wearing his contacts – make that _contact_, singular, Colby corrected himself. No need for a lens in his other eye – it wouldn't help, anyway. David stepped out of the way, and Colby rolled his chair backwards a bit, giving Charlie access to the screen.

"That one," said Charlie, pointing at the list of files. "And that one, and that one." He handed Colby a flash drive.

Colby inserted the drive into his computer, and clicked; copying the files onto the drive, then disengaged it and handed it back to Charlie. "Sorry about that, Charlie," and if Charlie understood that Colby's apology encompassed more than just the mistake with the files, he didn't indicate it. Instead he just bobbed his head, a little too awkwardly, a little too formally.

"That's okay," he said, and turned and loped for the elevators before anyone could say anything more.

"Crap," muttered Colby.

"You got that right," said Nikki, and shaking her head, she strolled back to her desk.

Colby clicked on the computer screen, and David leaned over his shoulder again. "What's that?"

"One of the files Charlie wanted," Colby murmured. "I'm just checking it out.'

David's eyebrows rose. "To make sure it wasn't connected to the Tuttle case? I take it you didn't move those files to his flash drive?"

"No, I just copied them – I made sure I kept a copy until I could get a look. Nope," said Colby, sounding disappointed. "It looks like something for school – _lesson__ plan __for__ week_ _five_." He clicked on the other two files, and confirmed, "Yep, just school stuff." He clicked again, deleting them. "No sense keeping those." He looked up at David, ruefully. "I guess I was kinda hoping he was trying to get back in the game, and get back some of his Tuttle stuff."

David straightened, and sighed. "Yeah, me too, partner. Me too."

**….**

Charlie sat at his desk in his office, turning the flash drive over in his hands, staring, unseeing, at the blotter on his desktop. The conversation he'd overheard in the FBI office had stung; nearly as much as Don's sharp words the day before. Clearly, Don didn't want him working the case anymore – he'd said so, more than once, but Charlie didn't quite believe him until yesterday. He'd never seen Don that furious at anyone, and the fact that his fury was directed toward _him_ – that he had produced that level of rage – had shaken him, stunned him into silence. Along with the shock came fear – granted, the look in Don's eyes would frighten anyone, but what really made Charlie apprehensive was the sudden realization of the toll this case was taking on their relationship. It had taken five long years to build it up, and their battle against Tuttle was threatening to tear it apart. Then today, he'd walked in on the agents' conversation, and experienced the final humiliation. They were surmising – how had they put it? – that Don thought that he was 'getting in the way.'

Then there was Amita, who had made it clear that she no longer wanted him involved in Don's cases. She was due back now, in less than a week. Maybe she was right; maybe it was time to hang it up – go back to academia, and forget about working cases. God knows, he'd made a mess of things – so much so, that Don had made it clear he didn't want him involved anymore.

He stared down at the flash drive in his hands. The three files he'd taken back were associated with the Tuttle case - the last ones he'd been working on before Don had commandeered his data. He'd gotten in the habit of naming his current Tuttle files with the titles of lesson plans, and copying a standard paragraph or two from a real lesson plan at the start of them, so if anyone – namely Don – looked over his shoulder at what he was working on, he could camouflage it. The files were back in his hands now – he could continue his work on the case, or not.

The light glinted off the flash drive as he turned it in his hands. He thought back over the past several months, of his flight with Don to Idaho, and then to Chicago. He thought of Tuttle, and Audrey, and Mark Vincent. With a shudder, he thought of Ralph Nardek, and Derek Mace. His thoughts wandered further back, to the many cases he'd worked with his brother – of the thrill of pitting his wits against high-stakes real life situations alongside Don – of the excitement, and the camaraderie. It would be hard – excruciating – to leave that behind, but he really no longer had a choice. No one wanted him in the game anymore – not Don, not his agents, not his father, and especially not Amita. He was most decidedly in the minority.

He stared down again at the flash drive, and could almost feel the pull of it, like a magnet; could feel the bits of data reaching out to the synapses of his brain, and for a moment, he wavered. Then he straightened, opened his desk drawer, and tossed the flash drive toward the back of it amidst the clutter, and shut the drawer firmly.

It was time to move on with the rest of his life. He glanced at his cell phone – it would be late evening in Geneva, but he took a chance that she'd still be up, and punched his speed dial for Amita. She answered on the second ring, and he felt his heart give a funny little leap at the sound of her voice. "Hi."

"_Hi_."

Her tone was slightly reserved, but not cold, and he took a breath. "I just wanted to tell you – I've been thinking about your – requests. I - ," His throat tightened, and he had to swallow before he could get the words out. "I'm done. I just gave the FBI all my active case files. I think you're right; it's time to get on with my – with our lives. We can move; we can do whatever you want."

He could hear her take a deep a breath, and her voice was shaky with emotion when she answered. "_Charlie__ – __you__ can__'__t__ know__ how__ relieved__ – __happy__ – __I__ am__ to__ hear__ that_." She paused. "_I __miss __you_."

He felt his heart give that odd jump again, and he smiled, but it felt strange; lopsided. "I miss you too. I won't keep you up – I know it's late. I just wanted you to know. I'll pick you up at the airport, then, when you get here, like we talked about?"

She affirmed his question, and her good-bye sounded warmer and more tender than anything she had said since … well, since before he'd gone on his disastrous visit to Audrey's remote mansion. He disconnected the phone. Undoubtedly, he was making the right decision, he told himself, resolutely.

He pulled his laptop toward him and began clicking on the keyboard, pulling up a test for an advanced differential equations class, trying to ignore the lump in his throat, and the fact that his hands shook as he tapped the keys.

**…**

End, Chapter 7


	8. One Down, One To Go

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 8: One Down, One to Go**

**…..**

Amita Ramanujan hummed to herself, as she folded a sweater and put it in her suitcase. Her flight out was still three days away, but after her conversation with Charlie two days earlier, she suddenly couldn't wait to get home. She had decided to pack everything except what she would need for her last few days in Geneva.

Charlie's decision to give up consulting had removed any nagging doubts she'd had about her reception when she got there. He had said 'yes,' to her requests, and with that, any fear of rejection had vanished. Her first reaction was elation – she knew what consulting with his brother meant to Charlie, and the fact that he was willing to give that up for her, made it clear where she stood – it was a testament to his love for her. Strangely, though, as a day passed, then two, her euphoria had dimmed.

Oh, there was no doubt that she now felt confident that their relationship was solid; and that he loved her, and she loved him – more than ever. The fact that he had sacrificed what he lived for, what had become an integral part of him, was both the source of her joy – and the seed of her discomfort.

That seed had grown with the passing hours, into a rising sensation of guilt. Who was she, to dictate what he should or shouldn't do with his life? His was one of the great mathematical minds of the century, and she had feared that his consulting work was preventing him from reaching his potential – but how could she know that? Life was strange – who knew what one's destiny would be, or what route a person would take to reach it? Maybe by forcing him to leave consulting, she was actually sending him down a path to obscurity, instead of greatness.

It was true that she honestly felt that his consulting work put them in needless danger – but she also knew that Charlie was willing to accept that risk, at least for himself. The fact that she wasn't as willing was her problem, not his, but she had forced him into a corner, and made him choose. That really wasn't fair to him. Would he blame her for that, in years to come?

And so, during the course of the last two days, she'd come to a realization. It no longer mattered to her – at least not too much, in the big scheme of things – whether he continued to consult or not. The important thing was; he'd been willing to give it up, to make the ultimate sacrifice for her. She knew that now; she knew without a doubt how much he loved her. If she really loved him, the least she could do was to find a way to live with the worry, and let him continue to do what he loved. And as soon as she got to L.A. and could speak to him face-to-face, she would tell him so.

**…..**

It was a week for apologies, Don reflected, as he strode across the CalSci campus. He'd already apologized to Robin – successfully, he might add – but he still had one to go. He hadn't forgotten the expression on Charlie's face when he faced him in the office, and ordered his agents to commandeer his laptop. The invasion of privacy had been bad enough; legally, Charlie could have told him to piss off and get a warrant, and had he been the average Joe off the street instead of Don's brother, he probably would have. Hell, even most brothers would have reacted that way.

Most brothers, but not Charlie. Deep down, Don knew what his father had told him long ago – that Charlie had always looked up to him, and in spite of some outward resentment at times at being ordered around – would do anything he asked. Don had taken advantage of that on more than one occasion, and this instance was no exception. He'd planted his face squarely in his brother's, with a look that he normally reserved for the lowest of criminals, and made his demands – and Charlie had acquiesced. No argument, none of the resentment Don had been expecting – instead he'd looked shocked, even… frightened.

It was that expression that was bothering Don – hell, it turned his stomach. Scared. He couldn't fathom why – in spite of his anger – that Charlie would be frightened; he hadn't in his wildest dreams expected that reaction. Mad, maybe, but not scared. Had he really come across as that nasty; that threatening? God knew; Charlie's psychological state had to be a little fragile after everything that he'd been through – he was still probably healing emotionally. He probably couldn't take the show of anger, of aggression – and knowing that his own brother had kicked him when he was down, after everything that Charlie had done for him. He had to apologize – to tell Charlie that his anger hadn't been directed at him – that it was generated by Tuttle, and his frustration at not being able to nail the bastard, and by fear; the fear that Charlie was exposing himself yet again, because he had still been poking around in the case.

He knocked gently on Charlie's office door, and stuck his head in as Charlie glanced up, and said, "Come in." Charlie immediately put his head back down; he was typing away on his computer, and Don closed the door, crossed the sizable office, took a seat across from him, and waited.

After a second or two, Charlie looked up, questioningly. His expression was bland, but there was a hint of something unsettling in his eyes. Wariness, but something else… sadness? Had Don provoked that emotion, too? "Charlie," he began, gently. "I owe you an apology, Buddy."

Strangely, at that statement, the look of sadness deepened – just for a split second – then it was gone. Charlie waved a hand. "For what?"

Don frowned slightly at the too-glib reaction. "Charlie, you know 'for what.' For what happened at the office a couple of days ago. I was over the line – I realize that. What I want you to know is – I wasn't angry at you, not directly. I was angry at the fact that we haven't been able to get anywhere with Tuttle, and that he's still out there, and I'm angry at the fact that I still need be scared that he can come after my brother. I'm pissed off at the circumstances, Buddy, not at you. I definitely stepped over the line when I told the guys to take your files – you had every right to tell me to go to hell."

Charlie had put his head back down. He had stopped typing for a moment, but as Don had spoken he had started again, and now he replied as his fingers clicked on the keys. "Not a problem," he said, levelly. "I've been giving this some thought, and discussing it with Amita, and -," he stopped typing, and looked up, directly into Don's eyes. "I've decided to quit consulting. There are a lot of things I've been neglecting from a research standpoint; I think I need to focus on that." His voice was dry, matter-of-fact.

Don stared at him; feeling like his gut had just dropped through a trap door. Whatever he'd expected, it hadn't been that. "Charlie – when I asked you to give up this case, I meant this case – not all cases."

Charlie's expression turned wistful, and the deep sadness returned to his eyes. "Don't get me wrong – it's been a great ride – some of the best years of my life, and I loved working with you. I just – have had enough." He fell silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his expression was pleading, his voice husky. "I need my life back."

For a moment, Don couldn't breathe. Charlie's decision made sense – how could it not? His work on this case had nearly gotten him killed, twice, had cost him the sight in one eye, and possibly his relationship with the woman he loved. It was best for him, safer that he leave this line of work, and after all, that had been what Don wanted, wasn't it? His brother's safety? Then why did he feel so horrible? He managed to find his voice, and it came out strangely smooth and normal-sounding. "Sure, Charlie, if that's what you want. I completely understand." No he didn't, not really. Need his life back? Was that how he had felt about all their years of working together? He rose. "No hard feelings, then?"

"Of course not," murmured Charlie. His shoulders slumped, and he looked back down at his computer screen.

Don hesitated, trying to fight the emotion welling up in chest. "Well, then – thanks. Thanks for all your help." He'd meant that to sound heartfelt, but the lump in his throat made the words come out as insipid; hollow. "Keep in touch." Keep in touch? Where in the hell had that come from – this was in essence a good-bye – how lame was that statement? Couldn't he manage anything better than that?

Charlie looked stricken. "Sure," he mumbled. "I will."

Don nodded, and somehow willed his feet to move. "See you around." Lame, lame, lame… but his mind felt disconnected; unmoored. He could barely manage to think straight, much less say anything meaningful.

He hesitated another split second, hoping that this would somehow be undone – that Charlie would retract his statement, but there was no response other than the relentless clicking of computer keys, and a brief nod. Those mundane-sounding little clicks were monumental; they signified the choice that Charlie had made – and made it evident that he was immersed in new pursuits. He had already left his consulting work behind him. The sound followed Don out the door and echoed in his head, all the way back to the office.

**….**

Robin stepped off the elevator into the FBI offices a little before noon, and glanced automatically towards Don's desk in the bullpen. It was unoccupied, but she could see Liz and Nikki at their desks, and she wended her way through the cubicles toward them. "Liz," she called out in greeting, as she approached. "How's it going?"

Liz and Nikki's heads both came up at her greeting; and Robin noted their smiles with just a little sense of pride. Both agents had never been anything but respectful of her in her role as a prosecutor, but Robin had the sense that their respect had deepened after her takedown of Audrey Montague. She suspected they now thought she had some street skills to go with her brains, and she had to admit, it made her feel good – although in truth, her victory had been due less to street skills and more to a frantic effort to save her own life, and, she had to face it, due to being more than a little pissed off at the woman.

"Good," said Liz. "What's up?"

Robin glanced around the office again. "Just looking for Don. We were supposed to go out to lunch. I guess he got held up?"

Liz's expression sobered, and she exchanged a wary glance with Nikki. "No – in fact, he left about an hour ago with Colby and David to go interview some of the inmates who might have witnessed Nardek's stabbing."

Robin felt an odd twist in her gut, and could sense heat rising to her face. It was bad enough that Don had stood her up, without so much as a phone call. What was worse yet – much worse – was that he had lied to her.

She forced a smile. "Oh. I thought you guys were done with the Tuttle case."

Again the guarded glance. It was a look that said, just a plainly as if Liz had spoken aloud, 'what – don't you guys talk at all?' Liz said, slowly, "Not yet. It's not looking great, but we haven't given up – we're still running a couple of leads. A connection that Charlie found, and David and Colby are trying to see if they can find who might have offed Nardek. It's possible his murder wasn't connected to the case, but you have to admit, it was pretty suspicious that he was killed the day after his lawyer told us he had dirt on Tuttle."

Nikki added, "They went up to Victorville. It takes an hour and a half to get up there, plus that to get back, not to mention the time they'll spend interviewing. We weren't expecting them back until this evening."

Robin laughed, a little self-consciously, still trying to hide the flush of embarrassment and anger on her face. "Oh well, I guess we got our wires crossed. I'll catch up with him later. Thanks anyway."

She strode off, her head high, a grim smile on her face. At her car, she climbed in, slammed the door, and just sat there, seething, for a moment. It was bad enough he was continuing with the case, and that he had forgotten their lunch date, but the fact that he sat there and lied to her face was unforgivable. She tapped a long, slender finger on the steering wheel – the only outward sign of the hurt and anger within, and then pulled out her cell phone.

She searched back through her dialed calls, and pulled up the number for her airline reservations. "Yes, this is Robin Brooks," she said, when she got a representative on the line. "I have a reservation for a flight in two days – I was wondering if I could move it up. Tomorrow is the earliest you have? The fee is no problem, I'll take it. Yes, charge it to the same credit card. Thanks."

She stewed all the way back to her office. How could he do this to her? Was he that smug? He got off the hook with his apology, and went right back to doing what he damn well pleased, and lying to her, to boot? Well, he wasn't getting away with that. At a stoplight, she pulled out her cell phone again, and hit speed dial for his cell phone. There was no answer – in fact, it went straight to voice mail. He either had it turned off, or they were already in the mountains north of the city and he had no signal. She left a message anyway, delivered through gritted teeth, in a voice tight with anger and dripping with sarcasm.

"Don. Sorry I missed you at lunch today – apparently our plans were pre-empted by your visit to Victorville. I sure hope that visit was worth it. Don't bother to call – I moved my flight up and I'm leaving in the morning; I'll probably be in bed by the time you get back. Oh, and for that matter, don't bother to call me in Dallas – I'm sure I'll be extremely busy." She hit the 'off' button before she completely lost her cool and said something really nasty, but the rest of the way to her office, all of the things she could have said, and might, when she saw him again, coursed through her brain.

She kept control of her anger that afternoon at the office while she finished up a few items and gathered up her files for the case, but submerging it was like putting a lid on a pot – it was bound to boil over eventually. Eric Tramden had looked at her oddly when she told him she was leaving the next morning, but he agreed readily enough. On the way home again, her lips tight, she took a few deep breaths, but the drive gave her time to think, and by the time she got to her house she was so mad she could barely see straight. Certainly too angry to register the men from the landscaping service working next door, with their truck parked at the curb next to her driveway – at least, until she felt their presence behind her as she strode up the driveway. By then, it was too late.

She had just retrieved her keys from her purse when she sensed movement behind her, but before she could react she was jerked backwards, choking as a strong hand reached around and grabbed her windpipe and another strong arm wrapped around her torso, pinning her right arm to her side; and her body against her attacker's. Amid the shock and confusion, she felt a sharp pain in her upper right arm as a needle was driven into it, and then the yard swirled and dipped, and collapsed into darkness.

"Get her into the truck," muttered Paully, with a quick look up and down the street as Dominic grabbed the unconscious woman's legs. It was quiet; the street was primarily occupied by working professionals, and was relatively deserted at midday. Once she was in the truck, they covered her quickly with leaf bags, and then Paully grabbed her keys from where they had fallen, darted up the driveway, and quickly opened the door to her house. Several moments later he was back, carting a suitcase. He grabbed her purse and briefcase from the driveway, locked her car, threw the suitcase, purse, and briefcase into the truck next to Robin's inert from, and climbed into the passenger side.

"What took you so long?" groused Dominic.

"I had to think for a minute," shot back Paully, defensively. "I tried to take not just the clothes, but the stuff she would take on a trip, her toothbrush and crap. If anyone comes in to check on the house, we want all that stuff gone so it looks like she left on her trip."

Dominic grinned as he started the engine. "Good thinking. One down, one to go," he smirked, and he put the car in gear and hit the gas. Moments later the street was empty, and the only sign that anyone had been there were the lawn clippings on the curb.

**….**

End, Chapter 8


	9. Delicious

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 9: Delicious**

**…..**

J. Everett Tuttle snapped his cell phone shut, tossed the device onto the desk and leaned back in the chair, a slight smile on his face. Delicious.

Things were finally starting to go his way. His smile widened. He still couldn't believe that one of his best contacts had slipped through the investigation after the Montague scandal. Of course, it helped that Tramden was steering the machine; he wasn't likely to implicate himself. Eric Tramden had been his ace in the hole for years. Montague hadn't known he was on the payroll; Audrey had never realized that her boss was deeper into Tuttle's organization than she was. Even Nardek hadn't known. He thought all the money and resources Tuttle funneled to the US Attorney's office were going to Audrey. Tuttle had thought about setting him straight - he had trusted Nardek right up to the moment Nardek screwed him - but Tuttle was a man who liked to keep a little something up his sleeve. He didn't feel right if he didn't have at least one secret.

Thank God. His instincts had served him well yet again. Tramden's involvement with Tuttle was never discovered, and the high-priced contact was able to notify him yesterday, when the Brooks woman decided to leave town early. Paully and Dominic, still trying to prove their worth to Tuttle, had grabbed at the assignment eagerly. Just hours after Tramden's call, they snagged Brooks at her house.

His smile faded as he grew more pensive. Of course, it wasn't an ideal situation. They had been forced to act before he was ready. The Ramanujan woman wasn't back in the States yet, and he didn't want anyone to suspect foul play was afoot until he had them both – he wanted no one to suspect that Brooks was still in town, and stored in a decrepit East L.A. warehouse. Paully and Dominic had done a nice job with the abduction, thinking ahead and taking Brooks' clothes and a suitcase. Tuttle had them take the luggage to the warehouse; he didn't need some homeless idiot finding the expensive clothes in a dumpster and screwing everything up. Now, if anyone checked the house it would look as though she left intentionally. The car was a risk, but Tuttle had decided to leave it in the driveway. Tramden would tell anyone who asked that Brooks had intended to take a cab to the airport, since she didn't know how long she would be gone, and there hadn't been time to book the usual car service. The feds could check out all the taxis and airport shuttles, of course, but they wouldn't do that unless they thought something was wrong. If Tuttle's plan continued to go his way, they never would. He smiled again.

At least, not until they found her body.

**...**

Spike Johnson swallowed, and warily regarded the two muscular agents who stood in front of him. "What's this about?" He caught a glimpse of their badges as they were flashed in his face – Agents Granger and Sinclair.

The one named Granger smirked, just a little, although his eyes were narrowed slightly. The blue gaze was so keen; Spike feared he could look right through him. "Just a few questions," said Granger. "Regarding some phone calls."

"Sure," said Spike, with a nervous glance around him. They stood next to his car, on the sidewalk of a downtown street, and he cast about for a quiet place to talk. Finding none, he backed up against the vehicle and leaned against it, fighting the urge to run. "What phone calls?"

Sinclair picked up the thread, and thrust a paper at him. "Our records show that on these dates, you received several phone calls from Ralph Nardek. Following those calls, you made a few of your own to an unregistered number – a prepaid cell. We'd like to know what those calls were about, and who you called afterward."

Spike licked his lips. "I know Ralph, but I didn't have nothin' to do with whatever he was doin' that got him sent to prison."

He wasn't lying there - he'd had no idea that Nardek had planned to kidnap and beat the hell out of the Eppes brothers. No, those calls with Ralph were made earlier - never mind that they were made to set up the hit on Don Eppes – the hit that went so wrong, and nearly killed that doctor instead. Spike screwed up his face, pretending to remember, and spun out the first lie he could think of. "That was a while ago. There was some guy I know – he was askin' for some computer help, and I told him I'd ask Ralph. Somethin' about settin' up a website. I made a few calls for him to Ralph – Ralph knew all that computer stuff. I didn't know the guy's number was a prepaid cell – and what if it was? Lots of people use those."

Granger's eyes narrowed even further. "Who was it?"

Spike scrunched his face even tighter. "Can't remember – it was someone I didn't know too well – who the hell was it?" He pretended to give up; shrugged. "It'll come to me. You got a card or somethin'? I can call you if I remember."

He could tell they'd been ready to go on the offensive, maybe haul him downtown for questioning, but his request for a card put them back on their heels. They looked at each other, and then Granger pulled out a business card. His face was still full of suspicion, and he muttered, "I'll _bet_ you don't remember," but he handed Spike the card and said, "You got one day to think about it. Call us by tomorrow, or we'll come looking for you."

Spike nodded, pulled himself away from the side of the car, and spread his hands earnestly. "I will – I got nothin' to hide."

They shot him looks full of skepticism, turned on their heels and strode off, and Spike breathed a sigh of relief, and hurried to climb into the car. He was certain they didn't have an arrest warrant, or even a whole lot of hard evidence, or they would have hauled him downtown on the spot. They were just fishing. Still, the encounter had set his knees to shaking. He put the car into gear, and pulled out into traffic. As much as he hated to be the bearer of bad news, he had to tell Tuttle.

**...**

Don was in a sour mood.

All calls to Robin's cell were going directly to voice mail. No doubt about it; she was pissed. He probably should have told her about the trip to Victorville, but it wasn't something he had done to prolong the Tuttle case - he had gone there to tie things up, once and for all. He wanted to hear that the weasel Nardek had managed to get himself killed in an argument, unrelated to the case. Then he planned to come here, to Charlie's house, to tell his brother he had to let it all go. He had gone to the prison for all the right reasons, damn it, and a large part of him resented her anger, her assumptions; her gutless retreat.

He stomped through the dark kitchen and pushed forcefully through the swinging door that led to the dining room. Where the hell was Charlie? His car was in the driveway...his father's vehicle was missing, though. Maybe they'd gone somewhere together. "Great," he muttered. He moved into the dark living room, and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "Anybody home?"

"Present."

His brother's voice came from the vicinity of the couch, and startled Don so badly his hand automatically went to his gun. He whirled. "Chuck?"

This time, he got a hiccup for a response. Don took a steadying breath. Now that his eyes were growing used to the dark, he could see the outline of Charlie's curly head above the back of the sofa. Don took a few steps to the lamp, and clicked it on.

Both brothers squinted in the sudden light. Charlie shaded his good eye with his hand in an uncoordinated move that knocked his glasses half off. "Ow," he protested.

Don moved to the front of the couch, and spied a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the coffee table. He frowned. Wonderful, he thought bitterly. He sank down on the opposite end of the couch and reached for the bottle. "You could at least share," he grumbled before taking a long drink directly out of the bottle.

Charlie pawed clumsily at Don's arm. "S'mine," he slurred. "Go 'way."

Don let Charlie have the bottle. "I'm not on call tonight," he said. "Tell me what the hell your problem is this time."

Charlie was drinking from the bottle himself now, but he tried to glare at his brother through the upended glass. At length, he lowered the bottle. "You're mean," he pouted.

In spite of himself, Don smiled. He truly had been a little irritated with Charlie, and more than a little tired of his brother's constant problems, but now he reminded himself that none of them were really Charlie's fault. It was actually pretty amazing that he didn't kill a bottle of Jack every night. Don reached for the bottle, prying it from Charlie's grasp with some difficulty. "Sorry," he said. "I'm having some issues with Robin." He sipped another mouthful of the amber liquid, grimacing as it burned down his throat. "Seriously," he said when he felt the whiskey hit his stomach. "What's up? We outta wine?"

Charlie suddenly smiled broadly. "I'm never outta whine," he answered. "Get it? Whine? With, with an H?"

Don groaned. "Audio Scrabble®. This should be fun."

Charlie giggled, hiccupped again, and then sniffed. "Oh, Donnie..."

Don rolled his eyes at the tears in his brother's wavering voice. He shoved the bottle toward Charlie. "Oh, Chuck."

Charlie took the bottle, but didn't take a drink right way. "She doeshn't wanme to piccer."

Don tried to interpret that. He hadn't eaten in a while, and the Jack was hitting him hard. Still, "she" had to be Amita. But what was a "piccer"?

"Z'airport," Charlie slurred before Don could ask. "I wanned to piccer up - sho she could shee I got my driversh lishence. Shurprise her. But she wans to meet at P...P...P...that French place. Hash food."

Don was pretty sure he had it, now. "Amita doesn't want you to come to the airport and pick her up? She wants to meet at Pierre's?" Did Pierre's serve hash?

Charlie nodded his head so hard that his glasses fell back into place. He looked at Don solemnly, and spoke very carefully. "She. Says. We. Have. To. Talk." He brought the bottle to his mouth again.

Don winced. _Not_ _The Talk_, he thought. Aloud, he asked, "Did you tell her you quit consulting?"

Charlie's eyes were watering when he shoved the bottle back at Don. "Not enough," he said sadly.

Don drained the bottle of Jack. "I could get more," he suggested. "You got any more good stuff in the house?"

"Wha?" Charlie couldn't look more confused if he tried.

Don almost laughed. "More booze," he clarified.

Charlie dug around in the space between the cushions, eventually bringing out a half empty bottle of tequila. "Wazzis?"

Don stared. "It's a bad idea, is what it is. Have you been mixing tequila and whiskey?"

Charlie regarded the bottle sadly. "Assed me to move," he confided to the tequila. "Leave L.A."

Don tugged at the bottle. "You've had enough." He thought about what Charlie was saying. "Wait. What? Amita wants you to move away from home?"

Charlie suddenly let go of the bottle, which flew into Don's chest. Charlie reached up to wipe at his eyes under his glasses - misjudged the distance, and poked himself in his blind eye. "Ow," he sniffed. "Did you hit me?"

Don was rubbing his chest. "No," he answered irritably. "_You_ hit _me_."

Charlie sighed. "I love home."

"Of course you do," Don said. He twisted the lid from the bottle of tequila and took a tentative sip. "She shouldn't have asked you to move away. Damn women." He took another sip.

Charlie's hand snuck around the bottom of the bottle. "Wam dimmen," he echoed. "Gimme."

Don let him take the bottle. "Where's Dad?"

Charlie gulped, choked, and spit a mouthful of tequila spray over the coffee table. "Where?" he asked fearfully.

Don giggled - and knew that he was in trouble. He never giggled. "Oh, geez."

Charlie suddenly brightened. 'WE HAVE CHEESE!" he shouted, and struggled to stand. Don grabbed the bottle and sipped tequila while Charlie pushed off the couch, grabbed the lamp shade, and stood wavering dangerously over the glass-topped coffee table. Finally he looked at Don, his forehead wrinkled. "Why 'm I standing?"

Don shrugged. "Shit down."

Both brothers laughed, and Charlie fell back onto the couch. "You shaid shit," he chuckled.

Don smiled at him, and offered the bottle. "You're a funny drunk," he observed fondly.

Charlie nodded his head happily. "Okay," he agreed.

**...**

Tuttle sipped at his cognac and closed his eyes in pleasure. He didn't care that the FBI goons had been nipping at Spike's heels; Tuttle was too far ahead of the game. By the time he was done, Agent Eppes himself would be calling his men off.

The Eppes were idiots. He simply didn't understand how they'd gotten the best of him - and on several occasions, no less. The stupid fed, at least, should have figured out that Tuttle would have contacts in Geneva. After all, a great deal of his hard-earned money was there, and his passport held at least five stamps from that country. He opened his eyes, and set the tumbler carefully on the desk.

It had been ridiculously easy for his Swiss contacts to find someone willing to sit through one of CERN's endless symposiums long enough to pilfer Amita's cell phone. A highly sophisticated listening device was inserted under the battery, the phone was turned in to lost-and-found and subsequently retrieved by Amita - and soon Tuttle had all the information he needed - and a great deal that bored the hell out of him. In fact, he made Spike Johnson listen to most of the tapes; they lulled him to sleep, for the most part. Still, they had determined exactly when the good doctor was coming back to L.A. Better yet, they had heard her ask Dr. Eppes not to come to the airport, and arrange to meet him instead at Pierre's. Tuttle took another sip, and glanced at the neatly lettered placard on the corner of his desk: "Dr. Amita R". Paully would be holding the sign and standing in the baggage claim area when Dr. Ramanujan arrived in two days. He would tell her that her fiancé had a message for her; Dr. Eppes was respecting her wishes, and had arranged for a private car to transport her to the restaurant, where he would be waiting anxiously for her.

The woman would be taken to join the Brooks bitch, while he let Charlie stew for a while, alone at his table. When the time was right, J. Everett Tuttle himself would emerge from the shadows, and deliver his own message. He took another sip of cognac, and swirled it on his tongue.

Delicious.

**...**

Alan smiled when the headlights of his car illuminated the outline of Don's SUV. It was nice of Don to come and spend some time with Charlie, even if Alan himself was not there to offer a home-cooked meal. He immediately frowned when it occurred to him that Don could just be there to get his brother to do something for him on a case. Ordinarily, in spite of his trepidation over either of them being involved in sometimes-dangerous activities, Alan applauded the fact that they worked together. The cases had given them a common ground, a way to find a relationship that had once been nearly non-existent. After the frightening events of the past few months, however, Alan was convinced that both of them, and especially Charlie, needed a break. Alan glanced at the house and felt his brow wrinkle in confusion as he climbed from his vehicle. The house seemed pretty dark. There were no lights on upstairs, and it looked as if there was only a small lamp lit, downstairs. Charlie liked to have a lot of light these days, with his diminished vision. Alan plucked a bag of groceries from the trunk and approached the kitchen door. Maybe the boys were watching a movie?

He cocked an ear as he entered the house and set the bag on the table. He heard something, but Alan wasn't sure it was a movie. Shrugging, he flicked on the kitchen light and proceeded to put away the groceries. He put the milk into the refrigerator, grabbed a longneck, and pushed through the swinging door. "Boys?" he called.

A chorus of coordinated snoring was his answer. As he came to the edge of the living room, he slowly lowered his bottle of beer and stared silently at the tableau before him.

Charlie was slumped into a corner of the couch. His head was tipped back onto the back of the sofa, soft snores escaped an open mouth, and an empty bottle of Jack Daniels was hugged lovingly to his chest. His brother's feet were in his lap; Don was stretched over the length of the divan. One hand pushed into the floor, as if he had needed the feel of something solid beneath his fingers. His mouth also hung open, and he also snored - somewhat more impressively than his brother. A not-quite-empty tequila bottle stood silent sentry on the coffee table.

Alan felt a surge of concern, followed by a warm, fuzzy feeling. Obviously, one or both of his sons had started drinking, and the other had either joined in for the sake of providing company - or was having his own issues. He tried not to smile at the scene. He wasn't exactly proud that the boys drank themselves into unconsciousness…but they had chosen to do it in each other's company, in a safe location. That was good. Wasn't it?

He went back into the kitchen, put his own beer down for a moment, grabbed two water bottles and a bottle of aspirin, and returned to the scene of the crime. He traded his bounty for the tequila bottle on the table, then moved to Charlie and tugged gently at the empty bottle of Jack. Charlie frowned and tightened his hold. "Mmfritum," he mumbled, moving his head a little. Alan quickly gave up on the bottle and settled for sliding Charlie's glasses from his face. He laid them gently next to the lamp on the end table, went to the closet under the stairs and pulled out two blankets. He tossed one over each son, snapped off the lamp, and thought about retrieving his beer from the kitchen.

"Maybe not," he whispered to himself. "There's probably not enough aspirin for all three of us."

**...**

End, Chapter 9


	10. Wanting Everything To Be Better

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 10: Wanting Everything to Be Better**

**…..**

Charlie carefully eased the Prius into traffic. His eyes were shaded behind prescription sunglasses, and there was still a slight pounding in his head. His stomach had stopped trying to turn itself inside-out the previous afternoon, but it certainly wasn't craving rich French delicacies. He slowed to a stop at a red light and sighed. He'd probably have other legitimate reasons to lose his appetite, anyway. He had come very close to going to the airport to pick up Amita, despite her request; he had actually driven halfway to LAX before he came to his senses. It was time for him to convince Amita that he respected her, in addition to loving her, and breaking his promise was not a good way to start.

He hoped he was going to get the chance to show her how much she mattered to him. He wondered again if he would capitulate, if she pressed the idea of moving away from Los Angeles. She was right - they could teach anywhere - but the very idea made him a little nauseous. Sure, he had lived elsewhere during his life - New Jersey, England - but they were temporary stops along a road that always led to home. Agreeing to move might put the relationship back together - but would it be a permanent fix? Would he grow to resent Amita for making him choose between his home and her?

The car behind him honked, and he pulled himself together long enough to zip through the intersection. The light was already yellow, again. Amita had suggested that they bring Alan along when they moved, and he appreciated that, but his father had lived in L.A. over 50 years. His oldest son and all of his friends were in L.A.; he wouldn't want to leave. When Charlie and Don could stand the sound of each other's voices the morning after their binge, Don had told him that Robin was preparing to leave in a huff; just as Amita had. The Brothers Eppes were not doing so well in the relationship department. Robin wouldn't even answer Don's calls; at least Amita would talk to Charlie, even if he didn't want to hear what she was saying.

His hands grew sweaty on the steering wheel as he neared the restaurant. Would she agree again to wear the ring he had given her once before? What sort of reception had Don gotten when he went to Robin's house to plead his case? Why was life so difficult?

All Charlie wanted was for everything to be better.

**...**

Don stood in front of the hall closet, wondering at the disappointment he felt.

He had knocked on Robin's door first, and then when there was no answer, thought for a minute, and used his key. He stepped inside, calling for her, but only silence answered. It wasn't as if he'd been surprised when he opened the hall closet door to check and saw that Robin's luggage was not there. She'd said she was leaving, and she was not in the habit of making empty threats. He'd just been hoping they'd get a chance to talk before she went. He softly closed the door and started walking toward the master bedroom. Robin wasn't usually unfair, either, and a little resentment flared in the center of the black ball of disappointment churning in his stomach. She hadn't even given him a chance to talk to her; hadn't picked up his calls or answered any of his messages.

He slid open the door of the walk-in closet in Robin's bedroom, and saw that at least half of her clothes were missing. How long did she intend to be gone, anyway? Self-disgust began to crawl around his gut. Maybe she had been expecting him to show up here the evening he had come back from Victorville, or early the next morning. Instead, he had gone sulking to Charlie's house, joined his brother in a binge, and spent most of yesterday recovering. He had been pleased when he arrived at the house and found Robin's car in the driveway, but he realized now that she had probably taken a taxi to the airport. He wandered into the bathroom and looked at the place where her toothbrush should be. Then he regarded his own reflection in the mirror and sighed.

That was it, then. Her luggage was gone, her clothes were gone, her toothbrush was gone...even the hairbrush was missing from the top of the dressing table. He had to face the truth: Robin had left, she had left angry, and he didn't know if he could fix it, this time. He turned to leave the bedroom, and wondered what she would do if he turned up in Dallas. It would certainly be a grand gesture. He would think about it, and keep trying to call her. If he could only speak to her, he could try to determine from her voice if going to Dallas would help, or drive a nail in the coffin.

He glanced at his watch as he exited the house and locked the door behind him. It was almost time for Charlie to meet Amita at Pierre's. The two brothers were turning into quite the pair, relationship-wise. Charlie's fiancée left the country for six months to get away from him, and Don's own girlfriend had run off to Dallas, to get away from _him_. Just a few weeks ago, he was thinking about asking Robin to marry him. A few months before that, he had thought that Amita would be his sister-in-law by now. He hoped that the time away had softened Amita's heart toward his brother, but _"__we__ have __to__ talk__"_was never a good sign. Another thought occurred to him and he shivered as he climbed into the SUV. What if Robin had talked to Amita, and told her that he and Charlie were still working the Tuttle case? The two women had always been friendly, and had grown pretty close when he and Charlie were gone the summer before. It was likely that they were still in contact. If Robin had called Amita...

Oh, crap. All Don wanted was for everything to be better.

**...**

Amita sat nervously on the aircraft, waiting for the flight attendant to give the signal that the passengers could begin deplaning. She glanced again at her watch. The plane was almost twenty minutes late. She had thought she had allowed enough time to get her luggage, catch a cab, and get to Pierre's, but she would be cutting it close, now. She hoped there was a taxi available right away.

It had probably been a mistake not to let Charlie pick her up at the airport, but she had wanted to see him alone, first. Since he couldn't drive, that meant either Alan or Don would be with him - and she wasn't quite ready for that, yet. Until she talked to Charlie, she didn't even know where she lived. She had been living at the Craftsman when she left, but should she go back there right away? On the phone and over e-mail, Charlie seemed anxious to have her back - he had been willing to quit consulting for his brother, even - but she needed to see him face-to-face to know for sure, to know where the relationship stood. She had wounded him, she knew, by asking him to choose between the consulting work he loved and her. Then she had also asked him to leave the home he loved for her, and that demand was no doubt even more difficult for him. When he called and told her he would quit consulting, he had also said that they could move - but she had heard the reluctance in his voice. In her heart, she knew that Charlie hadn't made peace with the idea. True, one of the things she wanted to say to him today was that she had been wrong to make both demands; she wanted to take them back, but she feared that damage had already been done. She of all people knew that there were times a person had to step back, and re-evaluate. Maybe she should get an apartment for a few months, while she and Charlie worked on getting back together.

She sighed. She could always stay with Robin. Robin had a guest room in her house - but she also entertained Don frequently, and that could be awkward. At least, Amita hoped the two of them were still seeing each other. There had been an odd...undercurrent...to the conversation, the last time she had called Robin. Amita's forehead wrinkled with worry. It would be a shame if something had happened to that relationship as well as to her own with Charlie. Alan would be beside himself; to get so close to seeing both of his sons finally start their own families, only to have it all explode in his face...

Amita truly hoped that all four of them would pull it together, and get back on the right path. She stood, pulled her carry-on out of the overhead compartment, and started an excruciatingly slow journey toward destiny. All Amita wanted was for everything to be better.

**...**

Alan leaned back in his chair and chewed on the end of his red pen. The stack of papers on his desk represented half of a new technical manual. One of the ongoing arguments he had with Kath concerned the fact that their CAD tech manuals were only available online. He preferred hard copy, himself. He thought book format was easier on the eyes than words on a computer screen. A book was also easier to mark - bookmark frequently needed information, or scribble additional tips in the margins. Plus, there was always the argument that there were dinosaurs using the CAD software who did not have Internet access, or used slow, dial-up connections. He still hadn't convinced Kath that he was right; but at least she now had her technical writers printing off chapters for him to read and mark up before a manual was put out to the public. One of his duties at the firm was to help make the manuals more understandable to the general population.

He had been reading for several minutes when his computer screen flickered; the screen saver was activating. Charlie had come down to the office and installed the screen saver for him. Various photos of the things and people Alan loved took turns sliding across the screen. He glanced up just in time to see Charlie's and Amita's engagement photo disappear, and his heart sank. If only the two of them could work things out. Alan truly loved Amita, and he had missed her these last six months. He wondered if she would be moving back into the house when she returned - he hoped so - and exactly what she was saying to Charlie at the restaurant this afternoon. It was too bad that Charlie hadn't been able to make the grand airport pick-up he had planned, but the ominous-sounding _"__we__ have __to __talk__"_was decidedly worse.

Alan sighed, and lowered the page he was reading to the surface of the desk. Charlie had told him that Amita had made "some demands", but he had only shared one of them. Alan knew how hard it was for Charlie to quit consulting. He loved the work; he loved working with his brother. And even if he didn't say so very often, Don loved being able to come to Charlie for help. The end to Charlie's consulting would be hard on both of them - and if Amita's other demands were even more difficult for Charlie to talk about, Alan shuddered to think what they were.

He glanced at the screen again and saw Charlie and Don floating across it. They were smiling at each other; Alan had taken the snapshot himself at last year's CalSci faculty picnic. Don had talked Charlie into joining the softball game, and Charlie had surprised them all by hitting the first home run. Alan had snapped the digital photo when Don leaped off the bench to greet a triumphant Charlie at home plate. His heart grew heavier. The boys had gone through so much before they had forged such a close relationship. He didn't want to watch them put distance between themselves again.

The next photo was of a laughing Robin. Don had talked her into helping clean the koi pond, and when the fish were safely (and temporarily) swimming around in buckets, he had thrown her into the pond. Amita had dashed into the house and was back with the digital camera by the time Robin climbed out, soaking wet and covered with algae. Don had told her he was just going for the wet t-shirt look, and Amita had snapped the photo while Robin was laughing at him. Alan remembered how happy he was to hear her laughing; the incident had taken place after Robin tackled that woman in her office, and he had seen fire in her eye when she first climbed out of the pond. He had been a little worried for his son. Just like he was worried for him now. He didn't really know what had gone wrong between Don and Robin; when Alan had spoken to her, she seemed very willing to talk to Don. True, she was due to leave for Dallas anyway, but judging from Don's mood and his drunken binge with Charlie, there was more to the story.

An old picture of Margaret followed next, and Alan found himself talking to his computer. "I sure could use your help about now," he whispered. "Both the boys always liked you best." He reached out and jiggled the mouse so that the screen saver would deactivate.

All Alan wanted was for everything to be better.

**...**

End, Chapter 10


	11. Two Birds In A Cage

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 11: Two Birds In A Cage **

**…..**

Eric Tramden frowned at the number on his desk phone display, and waved his legal assistant out of the room. "Thanks, Janie. I need to take this call – it's from Dallas."

She rose from her chair and scurried dutifully from the room, and Tramden picked up the phone. "Trent Peterson! How's the case going?"

Peterson was young, brash and overly ambitious, and his tone carried a bit of a whine along with its usual obnoxious intensity. "It would be going better if your AUSA got her butt down here. Brooks sent me an email – I thought she was coming down early."

'_I __thought __she__ was,__ too_,' thought Tramden, but he kept it to himself. He truly had no idea what was going on, but if Robin Brooks' absence had something to do with Tuttle, he just might need to cover – either Tuttle's ass, or his own. He spoke into the phone. "She had told me she was taking off early, and left the office two days ago," he said. "But perhaps I misunderstood – she might have needed some time to settle some personal affairs before she left. Let me see if I can reach her."

"Good luck," snarled Peterson. "I've been trying both her home phone and her cell phone since yesterday. If she's that unreliable, maybe you'd better send someone else."

Tramden bristled, but he kept his voice even. "And maybe you'd better adjust your attitude," he said coldly. "Last time I checked, I was doing you a favor. No, strike that – I was doing your _boss_ a favor. I don't owe you shit."

Peterson was immediately contrite. "Sorry, sir. I just – hell, this case has got me in knots. We can't afford to lose it."

"You won't," said Tramden smoothly. "Let me look into this. If something has come up with Brooks, I'll send someone else." They exchanged good-byes, and as soon as he had disconnected, Tramden pulled out his prepaid cell. With a furtive glance at his closed office door, he dialed, and as soon as Tuttle answered, said, "What do you know about Brooks?"

There was a brief silence, and then Tuttle said, "Don't concern yourself about her."

Tramden spoke through gritted teeth, fury in his voice. "Damn it, Everett, I don't care what games you play, but I'll be damned if you drag me or this office into them again. You were using me to track her schedule – if anything happens to her; I'd better not be implicated."

"You won't be," answered Tuttle smoothly. "When I'm done, all of our issues – and the Eppes brothers – will go away. Just keep out of my way, and relax."

The line disconnected, and Tramden, still seething, stared at the phone in his hand. Brooks had disappeared, and Tuttle was not denying involvement – which meant he was behind her disappearance. That meant she was either dead, or probably soon would be – he doubted that Tuttle would allow her to live, once he had whatever he wanted. More than likely, Tuttle was using her to get to Don Eppes, somehow. Tramden felt nauseated. The fact was; he had liked Brooks, but not enough to risk his freedom by saving her hide. He set the phone down and rubbed his face with both hands. When had it come to this? He had started out in his career with all the fire and zeal of Trent Peterson, sure he would change the world, determined to bring justice to the City of Los Angeles. Now, he was just as certain he was about to become an accomplice to murder.

**….**

Robin Brooks tensed as her captor moved toward her, and fought the urge to back away as he approached.

She had only a vague idea of how long she'd been a captive; the windowless room she was in didn't have a clock or provide the benefit of outside light to see whether it was day or night. It looked like an office space built inside a warehouse or manufacturing building of some type; the walls were made of prefab jointed slabs and the floor was linoleum. It was lit by the glare of a fluorescent light fixture.

She'd been unconscious; drugged for part of the time. She'd woken to find herself lying on her side on a thin mattress on the floor, with her hands cuffed behind her. There was a chain strung through the cuffs that connected her to a four inch pipe that ran along the wall. Over the last several hours, her captors allowed her water, and judging by the water breaks and the resultant number of times she'd needed to relieve herself, she guessed she'd been a captive for about forty-eight hours.

Her bathroom breaks made her shudder; each time, her cuffs were removed and she was led through a door at the corner of the room that opened into a corridor with several more doors, some of which led to more offices like the one she where she was being kept, and two others that led to restrooms, his and hers. Her captors left the restroom door open, and watched her dispassionately as she attended to her needs; it was humiliating and frightening. They had leered at her once or twice, but thankfully, they left her alone.

Now, one of them was approaching her again, and she felt her tension dissipate a little as she saw that he was carrying a Styrofoam container and a bottle of water. Food. Even the mere thought made her stomach growl, and it twisted painfully as she caught a whiff of the container. Definitely, food.

Her captor set the container and the water in front of her, and stepped behind her to release her hands, while his partner looked on from the doorway. She had no idea what their names were, but they looked Italian and sounded like Jersey mafia kings, although she suspected they had spent quite a few years in L.A. One was sturdy, rather short and square, with a round head; she had mentally nicknamed him 'meatball,' in deference to his dome, and the other one was taller, with a hooked nose, thin lips and cold black irises – he reminded her of a shark.

Meatball released her hands from behind her, and spoke as she massaged her wrists. "You need to eat somethin'," he muttered. "You're gonna have a visitor soon, and we need to take some pictures. You behave, and you'll get more food and water later."

Shark watched silently from the doorway as she reached for the container with shaking hands. She was ravenous, but was damned if she was going to show it. She controlled her movements, and slowly opened the container and picked up half of a sandwich. Grilled cheese, already cold and congealed, but it tasted like heaven. She chewed slowly, carefully, washing the crusty bread down with sips of water, keeping a wary eye on Meatball as he moved to stand with Shark.

She swallowed the last bite of the half sandwich, and before she picked up the other half she said, "Why am I here? Who is the visitor?" She'd asked the first question earlier with no result, but this time tried pairing it with another – maybe she'd get them to answer one of them.

Shark spoke, his voice tight and reedy, although he allowed himself a thin-lipped smile. "You'll find out soon enough. Eat, before we take it away from you."

She did as she was told and picked up the other half of the sandwich, trying to swallow her fear with each dry bite.

**….**

Amita had her head down as she came off the ramp from the plane into the concourse, so she didn't see the sign until a man called, "Dr. R! Dr. R!"

Her head came up, and she spotted a well-built man with a sign that read, "Dr. Amita R."

He had sandy hair, and was wearing a suit and a rueful smile.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm not sure how to say your last name. I'm the limo driver – Mr. Charles Eppes sent me."

"Doctor. Doctor Eppes," she corrected automatically.

"Oh," said the man. "He didn't tell me that. Anyway, I'm supposed to take you to meet him."

Amita flushed with pleasure. How kind of Charlie to think about sending a limo, so she wouldn't have to hunt down a cab, she thought. "Yes," she said, falling into step beside the man. "We're supposed to meet at Pierre's, downtown."

The man glanced at her. "Yes, that's what he told me. We'll just grab your luggage at the baggage claim and we'll be off."

Her large, overstuffed suitcase came up quickly on the carousel, and she trailed behind the man as he rolled it through the doorway and out onto the sidewalk, thankful that she had shipped her other bag to her office at CalSci – she was suddenly anxious – so anxious to see Charlie, and in no mood to fuss with baggage. The man had parked in a temporary spot for taxis and limos, and instructed her to wait while he pulled the limo around. She admired it as it arrived; it was sleek and black, with windows tinted so dark that she couldn't see through them, but when he opened the door, she could see luxurious leather seats. He held her purse while she climbed inside. Charlie had really done it up right, she thought to herself, as she settled into the rear seat with a contented sigh. The driver handed her back her purse, closed the door and climbed into the front seat; she could see him through the glass divider, but couldn't hear him. Instead, soft music, piped in through rear speakers, filled the air. The driver got on the ramp for interstate 105, and pulled smoothly into traffic.

It had been a long flight and she was exhausted, and the soft music and comfortable leather seats were enough to lull her to sleep – almost. Anxiety over her upcoming face-to-face with Charlie and the anticipation of seeing him again kept her awake, and she mulled over what she planned to say to him. In essence, she planned to retract her demands – all of them, including moving away, as well as asking him to give up his work with his brother. She realized now that the events of the previous months had probably made her oversensitive, irrational, and the time to think had helped her get back on an even keel. Even if she hadn't regained a measure of rationality, however, she knew it wasn't fair to ask him to give up those things for her. A small piece of her still hoped he would, but she had decided that she could never ask him to do that, to pressure him into something he might regret later. He would have to make those decisions of his own accord. So, she planned to tell him that over dinner – that she was back to stay, with no strings attached. The only question was – would he accept her apology, or would he be resentful that she'd put him through this? Was the limo his own olive branch, or was it part of an attempt to let her down easy?

She was so involved in her thoughts that she didn't realize that they were upon the exit for interstate 110 North until they were already past it. "Hey," she called, directing her words toward the glass partition and the back of the driver's head, "we passed the exit!"

He glanced back at her, just a quick look in the rearview mirror, and she was sure he'd heard her, but he didn't respond – he simply turned his eyes back on the highway. Okay, maybe he _hadn__'__t_ heard her. "Hey!" she yelled again, and this time she pounded lightly on the glass divider with her fist, in case the speaker system between the front and rear of the vehicle was turned off. "We passed the exit! We needed to go north on 110!"

This time the man responded; he turned down the volume of the music, and his voice wafted over a speaker under the glass. "Just sit back and relax. I'm going a shorter way."

That argument might have swayed someone else, but Amita was a mathematician, with superior spatial abilities, and knowledge of the L.A. area. She could picture a map of Los Angeles in her head, and knew well that 110N would have been the shortest way to downtown L.A. and the restaurant. The man had his turn signal on, and she realized he was getting ready to get off on 710N. At least he would now be heading north, but he was well east of where he needed to be. Once he got up to the East L.A. area, he would need to backtrack and head back west to downtown. Now she was angry. Charlie was probably paying this crook by the mile, and he was tacking on several extra miles by heading for their destination in a big loop.

Fuming, she rummaged in her purse for her cell phone. Her laptop was in the trunk, but her phone had Internet service. She would pull up a map of L.A., and see exactly how far this man had gone out of his way – and they would refuse to pay him an extra cent for that mileage. Now, where was that phone…?

"Looking for this?" The man's voice came through the speakers again, and Amita's head jerked up. The man was smiling coldly at her in the rearview mirror, and holding her cell phone up in one hand, waving it a little. She stared at him dumbly. He must have taken the phone out of her purse when he was holding it for her while she got in the limo – but why? A cold pit of fear settled in her stomach.

"What are you doing? Who are you?" she demanded.

His smile broadened slightly. "Never mind. Just sit back and relax."

She stared at him just a moment longer, and the fear nipping at the corners of her mind suddenly swirled into full-blown panic. She lunged for the door handle and pulled, heedless of the fact that they were speeding up the highway. It didn't give, and neither did the door on the other side; the inside locks had been overridden. There were cars on either side of them, and she pounded on the side window and screamed as loudly as she could, but the limo was well-insulated and the windows were tinted so dark that the other drivers couldn't see inside. None of them noticed. Half sobbing now, she turned her attention to the window separating her and the driver, and kicked at it, hoping it would shatter – maybe she could attract attention by making him drive erratically. That window, however, was just as sturdy as the reinforced glass on the outside of the vehicle.

All of her efforts not only produced no results, they garnered little reaction from her driver, other than a sardonic smirk. Panting, finally convinced of the futility of escape, she settled back in her seat, her mind racing. Was this an elaborate prank, or was she being kidnapped? If it was a prank, Charlie was in on it – the driver had mentioned his name. The man knew that they were an item, somehow. She couldn't believe, however, that Charlie had set this up, even as a joke of some kind – he would know that this would terrify her, after her previous kidnapping, especially when their relationship was already on rocky ground. No, it couldn't be a prank, which left…

Her mind was threatening to spiral off into panic, and she took a deep breath. '_You__'__ve__ survived__ a__ kidnapping __before_,' she told herself. '_You__ can__ do__ it__ again_.' Think. Think. What was this about?

Her brow furrowed. Somehow, the man not only knew that she and Charlie were an item – he knew that she was coming home, and knew when to pick her up at the airport. That would imply connections with the airport, or maybe listening devices in Charlie's home or office phones. Why would they target her? Were they trying to get to him? Her answer to that as the man's cell phone rang, and he picked it up.

"Yeah, I got her," she heard him say. "She was meeting him at Pierre's."

'_Him_' had to be Charlie, she reasoned – so someone _was_ trying to get to Charlie through her – perhaps coerce him to do something. But who?

She knew who came first to her mind, although she had to admit, Charlie could have other enemies from the many cases he'd worked. Somehow, though, this had the feel of one of them in particular – and after all that had happened, she had to face it, she couldn't shake the name…. J. Everett Tuttle.

With all the unknowns, she did know one thing – she suddenly wished mightily that she'd never asked Charlie to give up consulting.

**…**

"_Get__ in__ there!__"_

The voices wafted in through the door, and Robin watched apprehensively as it was jerked open, and a figure stumbled into the room. "Amita!"

Amita's eyes widened as she saw her, but she said nothing as Meatball pushed her toward the mattress. She sank down on it next to Robin, and wordlessly allowed Meatball to cuff her hands behind her, to the same pipe to which Robin was attached. That put them next to each other, and Robin could feel Amita shaking as she leaned against her.

There was a third person with Meatball and Shark, a well-built man with sandy hair, and Robin thought he looked vaguely familiar. She suspected he had brought Amita here – from where, Robin didn't know – she didn't even realize that Amita had come back stateside. "Are you okay?" she whispered. "Did they hurt you?"

Amita still said nothing, but she shook her head in answer, her wary gaze on their captors. Robin looked up, just as the man with the sandy hair snapped their picture with a cell phone. He pulled out another phone and stepped out into the hallway, out of sight, but Robin could hear his voice as he spoke into it. "Okay, I got the picture – I used her phone. Let me know when you want me to send it."

At that moment, unbidden, a sudden flash of memory hit. Spike Johnson. The man with the sandy hair was Spike Johnson – Robin had seen a photo of him in the Tuttle case file, weeks ago. With the recollection, came clarity – she now knew who they were dealing with, and why they were here. Tuttle was obviously using them to get to Don and Charlie…

The thought provoked a fearful twist in her heart, and a sudden surge of nausea. It had been bad enough when it had just been her – now Amita was involved, and Charlie and Don… "Oh, God," she whispered.

Amita looked at her, her eyes large and fearful, but they couldn't talk – Meatball and Shark were still standing in the room with them. Instead, they sat silently, trembling, leaning against each other in a vain quest for emotional support. Robin didn't think she could be more frightened, but Meatball's next words sent a new jolt of terror through her.

He was leering at them. "They're hot." He smirked at Shark. "Two of them, and two of us…," he let the words trail off meaningfully, and licked his lips.

Shark scowled at him. "Forget it, Paully. Go ahead if you want, but I'm not gonna leave my DNA for the cops to find."

Meatball/Paully's smirk faded. "Who says they're gonna find them?"

Shark just shook his head in warning and said nothing, but Robin knew the unspoken meaning behind Paully's question. Their captors planned to kill them, and hide or destroy their bodies. Amita apparently had understood also; she moaned softly, closed her eyes and leaned against Robin. They sat that way, motionless; long after their captors had left the room.

**….**

Charlie slumped at the table fiddling with his spotless linen napkin, picked up his cell phone again to check the time, and set it back on the table. Amita was a full half hour late. He could feel a lump growing in his throat, and wondered if he should try to call her again.

He'd arrived at the restaurant a bundle of nerves, and the soft lighting, elegant table settings and faint strains of smooth music had done nothing to calm him down. He was almost relieved when he didn't see her at the table, because it meant that he would have a chance to compose himself before she arrived. Just a minute or two… and now a minute or two and several of their cousins had come and gone, and he was far from composed.

At about twenty minutes into the wait, he'd tried calling her – no response. Five minutes after that, he'd called the airport – her flight had arrived as scheduled, an hour and a half earlier. He knew she was on it, because she'd sent him a text message hours before from Switzerland, confirming that she'd boarded, and would see him at the restaurant. Perhaps she'd been delayed – maybe had a problem with her luggage. If that was the case, though, wouldn't she have called to let him know? Where in the hell was she?

He waited fifteen more minutes, and the wine steward stopped by for a second time, with a sympathetic glance. "Monsieur would like some wine, now, perhaps?" he murmured, and Charlie shook his head, trying to smile.

"No thanks," he replied. "I'll wait."

The wine steward had no sooner departed than Charlie's phone buzzed, and he grabbed it eagerly. The phone was displaying Amita's name. It was a text message, and he jabbed at the button, his shoulders slumping as he read it. '_I__ decided__ not__ to__ come._'

His heart contracted, and for a moment he sat there, stunned, and then feverishly hit reply and typed in a terse message of his own. '_Why?_'

It seemed an eternity, but her reply finally came back. '_I__ don__'__t__ want__ to__ talk __now.__ Please__ don__'__t__ call__ me. __I__ will __talk__ to__ you __later.__'_

He stared at the display, numbly. This was it, then. After all this time away, she still couldn't bear to speak to him. His fears had been realized – she really didn't want to try to salvage their relationship – in spite of the fact that he'd been willing to give up everything he knew, just to be with her.

He rose from the table like a zombie, clutching his phone, and somehow managed to convey to the maitre d' that he wouldn't need the table, after all. Oblivious to the man's sympathetic gaze, he stumbled outside onto the sidewalk, and thrust the phone into his pocket.

Outside, two things happened at once. His phone buzzed again, and as he fumbled for it, a hand fell heavily on his shoulder. He looked up, and froze with his hand in his pocket.

J. Everett Tuttle looked down at him, with a cold smile. "Charlie Eppes," he said smoothly. "We need to talk."

**….**

End, Chapter 11


	12. Who Do You Trust?

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 12: Who Do You Trust? **

**…..**

For a moment Charlie just stood there, stunned into silence, then he sent a wild glance around him. The few well-heeled patrons filing into the restaurant didn't spare them a second glance – and why should they? They were just two well-dressed men, standing on the sidewalk. No one who saw them would ever know that one of them had tried to have the other one killed – more than once.

Tuttle inclined his head toward a silver Mercedes parked at the curb, just past the area reserved for cars to pull in for valet parking. "Let's talk in my car." His grip tightened on Charlie's shoulder, imperceptibly, and Charlie resisted.

"If you think I'm getting in that car with you, you're crazy."

Tuttle smiled indulgently. "Charlie. Really. Do you think I would try to abduct you – here, in front of all these witnesses? Listen, I'll send my driver away – we'll sit in the back seat. I can hardly drive away with you without someone behind the wheel. Besides, I thought you might like to hear about Amita."

For a second time, Charlie froze, speechless. Could Tuttle be the reason Amita hadn't shown up? But she had just texted him – to say she wasn't coming… He swallowed, fighting the urge to pull his phone from his pocket. It had stopped buzzing, but the periodic small beep it emitted told him he had another message. He swallowed, and nodded. "Okay. I'll give you five minutes."

Tuttle's smile broadened and he released Charlie, and waved toward the car. "After you."

They moved toward the car, and Tuttle stopped next to the driver's side window, which had opened at his approach. "Go get a coffee," he said to his driver, and the stocky man climbed out of the car, without question. One of the valets up further along the curb gave them a curious stare, but he stayed where he was; apparently Tuttle's vehicle was not in their way. It gave Charlie a little measure of comfort; however, that _someone_ had noticed him getting into the vehicle…

Fighting a sense of claustrophobia and a pounding heart, he slid across the leather seat, and Tuttle climbed in beside him and shut the door. "Now, then," said Tuttle, his smile vanishing, "take a look at the message on your phone. I know you want to."

Charlie stared at him, and then slowly pulled the phone from his pocket. He flipped it open. There was a message waiting, with a picture attached. He opened the picture, peered at the image, and everything else around him seemed to recede. Robin and Amita stared back at him, their fearful expressions frozen on the screen. His head shot up, and he trembled with shock and fury. "Where are they? What in the hell do you think you're doing?"

He must have looked half deranged, because the bigger man leaned away from him, with one hand raised as if to fend him off. "Charlie, calm down. They're not hurt. I have a business proposition for you and your brother. Do as I ask; and they will be released, unharmed."

Charlie's dark eyes bored into his. "You're lying," he spat, fear and rage nearly choking him.

Tuttle leaned forward, his eyes holding Charlie's. "Listen – we both have something the other wants. Here's my proposition. You and your brother take care of the case file on me – destroy records, paper and electronic – do whatever it takes to obscure anything that points toward me. You will keep it to yourselves, and tell no one. If you involve anyone else, I will kill them. If you do what I ask, I will release your women. It's as simple as that."

Charlie's lips tightened, and he shook his head. "There are public documents like phone records in that file – even if we destroy the copies, they can be replaced with a simple call from anyone in the FBI office to the phone company. It wouldn't do any good."

Tuttle smiled. "You're the genius, Charlie; use your head. In cases like those, don't destroy the documents – alter them to point suspicion away from me, and leave them in the file. No one will think to re-verify the altered data – especially if you and your brother say it is correct. And of course, there are all of your computer searches – done on your own. You can easily delete or alter them. Once you have sufficiently muddied the records, then your brother will close the case due to lack of evidence, and I will arrange for you to come pick up Robin Brooks, and your lovely Amita."

Charlie's eyes narrowed. "And what's to keep us from restoring all that data, and reopening the case, once you release them?"

Tuttle leaned back in his seat, an amused look on his face. "Two things," he said, holding up two fingers. He wiggled the first. "One, I doubt you would want it known that you compromised a federal investigation – and especially not your brother. It could cost him his career." He wiggled the second finger. "Two – if that happens – if you double-cross me – I will hunt down everyone you love, even from prison. The girls, your father… anyone close to you. Plus, I will know if you have changed the files or not – I will have a way of verifying that you made the changes. As you change the data, you will drop off a copy of the altered or deleted documents in Robin Brooks' office – which of course will be empty for a while. My contact will pick it up there. And don't even think about leaving a false set of documents. My contact will be able to check what you leave against the official files."

Charlie stared at him, and Tuttle leaned in for the coup de grace, and jabbed a finger at the picture on his cell phone. "You really have no choice," he murmured. "If you don't comply, I will kill them." He straightened and gave Charlie a dismissive wave. "No go along, professor. Run off to tell your brother – and don't disappoint me."

Charlie swallowed. "I can't guarantee Don will agree to go along with this – but if he does, how much time do we have?"

Tuttle nodded approvingly. "Now you're thinking. Really, it doesn't matter to me – as long the files are compromised – but when it comes to the girls, it would be much easier to explain a shorter absence than a longer one, don't you agree? Robin is supposed to be in Dallas, and you could explain that Amita was delayed in Europe – but not indefinitely, so I would think you would want to move quickly."

Charlie shut his phone, and fumbling, managed to get it back in his pocket. "How will we contact you?"

"You won't," said Tuttle, flatly. "I told you, I will have my ways of verifying what you've done. When I am satisfied, _I_ will contact _you_ and arrange for the handoff of the girls." He sat back in his seat and gazed at Charlie, impassively. "That is all, professor."

Charlie stared back at him for a moment, fighting the urge to punch the man's smug face. Then he opened the door, climbed out of the Mercedes, and walked toward the valet, handing him a numbered token with a shaking hand. "I'd like my car please."

**…..**

Don Eppes scowled at his computer screen and sat back, running his hand over his face. It was late – nearly eight p.m., but he and Colby and David were working late, along with a handful of other agents, on a bank heist that had gone down earlier that day, and which had resulted in a dead security guard. He opened his eyes again to look at the screen, and glanced sideways as movement caught his peripheral vision. He straightened in surprise, feeling a pleasant sense of anticipation. It had been several days since Charlie had visited the office – ever since he had told Don he was giving up consulting – and the sight of him here made Don realize how much he had missed seeing the slight figure loping through the bullpen. He felt just a glimmer of hope – maybe Charlie had changed his mind – but that turned into a more unsettled feeling as he caught Charlie's expression. His brother was pale, his face tight, eyes dark with worry. He stopped next to Don's desk, and without preamble, said quietly, "Don, I need to talk to you."

Don could hear Colby and David behind him, calling out greetings to Charlie from their desks, but he kept his gaze on Charlie, searching his face. Charlie gave them a grimace that was probably meant to be a smile, along with a half-hearted wave, and then bobbed his head at Don – a controlled but impatient gesture that said, '_Now._'

Don's brow furrowed slightly. "Okay, Buddy," he murmured, as he rose. "Let's go into the conference room."

Charlie glanced at the glass-walled room, frowned, and said, "Not that one. Let's use the small one down the hall."

Don rose, and Charlie turned immediately and led the way, down the hall to the smaller room. It had solid walls, and was located farther away from the bullpen – Don used it for personnel evaluations because of its privacy. There weren't that many people in the office that time of night, but still, Charlie was insisting on the secluded smaller room. Don frowned at his brother's back – clearly, Charlie was upset, and whatever he had come to talk about was serious. '_Amita_,' he suddenly thought to himself. Tonight was the night that Amita was supposed to return – she and Charlie were going to have dinner together. Had they already met? Had she given him bad news? Were they breaking up? '_Aw,__ Chuck_,' he thought, sympathetically as he took a seat; and Charlie pulled up a chair and sat next to him, a little closer than Don would have expected.

"What's up?" he asked softly, and Charlie swallowed, and looked down.

He was holding his cell phone, and he looked up and said, "I have something to show you. It is very – disturbing."

Don felt his gut tighten – this sure as hell didn't sound like a lovers' quarrel. "Okay," he said, as Charlie hesitated.

Charlie looked at him, then hit a button to bring up a picture on his cell phone, and thrust it at Don. His hand was shaking so badly that Don couldn't make out the image, so he took it from him, and as he got a look, he froze in place.

For a moment, he just stared, and actually forgot to breathe. The picture was of Amita and Robin, seated next to each other on what looked like a mattress on the floor. Their hands were behind them – and from the unnatural position, Don could tell that they were bound or secured somehow – probably to the pipe that rose up the wall behind them. As that sunk in, his heart suddenly gave a sickening twist, and he looked up at Charlie. "What – where are they? What –,"

Charlie slumped forward, despondently. "Tuttle. Tuttle has them."

Don shook his head, uncomprehending. His voice rose. "What? How do you know?"

Charlie shot a frightened look at the door. "Shh. Keep your voice down. We can't let anyone know – he'll kill them."

His voice nearly broke on that last statement, and he looked down, trying to keep the tears from his eyes. "How do you know this?" Don insisted, lowering his voice to an urgent half-whisper.

Charlie swallowed hard, and looked back up at him. "Because I met with Tuttle. Amita didn't show up at the restaurant, and then I got a text message from her saying that she wasn't coming. When I came out of the restaurant, Tuttle was there, waiting for me. At about the same time, this picture came through on my phone. They set it up – they must have picked Amita up from the airport, or on her way to the restaurant. Who knows how long Robin has been there – you thought she left for Dallas two days, ago, right?"

Don's head was spinning, and he closed his eyes as he remembered Robin's last sharp message on his cell phone, and his walk through her house. It had truly looked as though she had gone on her trip. Whoever had taken her had either covered the bases by taking her suitcase and some personal effects, or someone had abducted her on her on her way to the airport that next morning, after she'd packed. Either way – two days, maybe a little more…

"God," he whispered, and ran a hand over his face. He looked at Charlie. "What does he want?"

"He wants us to doctor the case files against him – delete any documents that implicate him, or if they are something that can be replaced, to alter them. Then, he wants you to close the case for lack of evidence. I think he figures it won't get opened again as long as you're here, and if you leave or anybody tried to look at it later, they wouldn't be able to make any sense of it. He says if we do that, he'll release them."

Don stared at him and shook his head. "Even if he did release them, why would he think that any of us would keep quiet after they were safe?"

"I asked him that," said Charlie miserably. "He said that number one, we would be admitting to tampering with a federal investigation, and that you could lose your job."

Don snorted derisively. "He thinks that would matter? I don't give a -,"

Charlie stopped him, holding up a hand. "Number two, and more frightening, he said he would come after everyone we loved, even if he was in prison. Amita, Robin, Dad…," his voice trailed off, and he looked at Don, pleadingly. "It was bad enough when he was after us. Now he's coming after our family and the people we love. I don't think we have a choice."

Don shook his head, slowly. "Charlie, what makes you think he's going to honor his promise to let them go?"

There was a note of desperation in Charlie's voice, as if he was trying to convince himself. "Because they're worth more to him alive – he can use them for leverage. If he killed them, then we'd have more reason to come clean, and expose his plot." He seemed to gather a measure of control, and his voice dropped. "He said any changes we make to the documents – we're to leave them in a file in Robin's office. He says he has someone who can check on them periodically to make sure they match the official case file."

Don was silent for a long moment. "I guess that's plausible," he said heavily. "After all, he had the Montagues in his hip pocket for months."

"So what do we do?" Charlie leaned forward, his eyes on Don's face.

Don took a breath, and looked at him. "Who do you trust?"

Charlie shook his head, bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"I'll play his game, or pretend to," said Don. "But in the meantime, we need to try to find out where he's holding the girls. We can't take the risk that he won't hold up his end of the bargain. We need to find them – and we could use some help."

Charlie paled, and sat back, appalled. "We can't bring anyone else into this. He said he'd kill them – and you're going to alter federal documents – if you tell anyone in this office they'll be duty-bound to stop us."

"Not if we don't alter the official case file," said Don.

Charlie shook his head, vehemently. "Didn't you hear what I said? He said he has a contact that has access to the FBI files. That person will be able to check the official case file."

Don smile grimly. "Not if there's more than one. If we can make one set of copies and leave them in Robin's office, we can make another. We'll put the true original case file away, with someone we trust, and we put a fake in its place in the FBI office. To everyone else, that will be the official file – that's the one we'll alter. We can do the same thing with any electronic documents, including the files you gave to Colby and David. We'll go along with his scheme and make alterations to the information to buy some time, and in the meantime we'll look for the girls."

Charlie groaned. "You still don't get it. Even if that works and he releases Robin and Amita, he can send people after them later if we go after him."

"That could be true," Don admitted. "But think about it, Charlie. We've put away most of his original gang, and taken the Montagues and Nardek out of the picture. He can't have that many people left, and he's probably lost a lot of his clout in the criminal world. He's controlled a lot of people through fear over the years, but he's hanging onto that control with a thread. If we can arrest his remaining people, too, or get them to testify against him, and tie his money to the investigation so it's tied up in court or confiscated, then he has no more power. What he's trying now – he's desperate, Charlie. This has all the hallmarks of a last ditch attempt. And if we don't take him down, he'll _always_ hold power over us, always be a threat to our families."

Charlie sat quietly for a moment, his eyes on the floor, and then lifted them. "You're right. That was how I've felt about the case all along, until today – I felt that none of this would be over if we didn't put him away – ," he stopped himself, and Don knew he was remembering that he'd vowed to give up consulting. "I mean, if _you_ didn't put him away. I panicked when I saw the photo – but you're right. We – and the people we love - will never be safe as long as he's on the street."

Don nodded. "So, back to my original question. We'll need some help. Who do you trust?"

"Colby," responded Charlie immediately. "And A.D. Wright. They've been with us on this from the beginning; we'd have been dead in Chicago if Colby hadn't shown up there when he did. I trust David, too." He hesitated. "It's not that I _don__'__t_ trust Liz, or Nikki. Certainly I trust Dad and Larry – I just think we should...I don't know, start out small, I guess, and only bring in others if we have to."

"I agree," said Don softly. "We should start with Colby, Dave and Wright." He frowned. "I wonder who Tuttle's contact is – if we're leaving files in Robin's office, it must be someone at the prosecutor's office."

Charlie nodded slowly. "And I'd bet Tuttle doesn't care a whole lot if you or I find out who it is – we'd know as soon as that person asked for the official file to do a cross check. Tuttle's counting on us not saying anything about any of this, including who his contact is, if we figure it out."

Don smiled, humorlessly. "Well, he's counting wrong. When we take down Tuttle, his contact is coming too, whoever it is." He paused, and studied Charlie's face. If Charlie had a fault, it was that emotion or anxiety sometimes clouded that brilliant mind – and extreme emotion could derail him entirely, and send his normally logical brain into an endless malfunctioning loop. "Are you okay? I know you said you were giving up consulting, but I'm going to need you on this, Buddy."

Charlie looked shocked. "It goes without saying – I'll do whatever I can to bring them home. I don't view this as consulting – their lives are at stake." Then he sat back and took a deep, shaky breath. "And yes, I'm better now." He tried to grin; it came out lopsided, but it was an oddly reassuring attempt. "I feel like we have a plan."

"Not yet, but we will," said Don firmly, rising. "Wright's still here, upstairs. Let's go round up Colby and David, and go see him."

Charlie stood, and Don could read a measure of relief in his face and the set of his shoulders. Big brother, the FBI agent, had stepped in with a plan – or at least he had made it sound like one. The fact was, he was scared to death, but he couldn't let Charlie see that. He had to put a good face on this, because he needed Charlie there, functioning mentally – just as he would need his team and Wright behind them. There was no doubt in his mind; they would need all the help they could get.

**….**

J. Everett Tuttle sat facing Spike, Paully, and Dominic across the battered table in a small room down the hall from where the two women were being held, and accepted the plastic tumbler of bourbon that Spike pushed across the table toward him. He waited until the others had their drinks, and lifted his glass. "Gentlemen." He sipped, and felt the satisfying burn of the bourbon in his throat. "To a good day. It went like clockwork." He smiled. "And now, we sit back and wait while the Eppes brothers take care of the case files."

Paully was frowning. "I don' mean no disrespect, sir, but you said you told the professor that when you were satisfied with the files, you would call him to come and pick up the women. But then, I thought you told us earlier that we needed to think about how we would dispose of the bodies. Are you gonna let 'em go? What's to keep 'em from fingering us – or the agent from openin' up the investigation again?"

Tuttle's smile broadened and he looked at Paully indulgently, as if he were humoring a child. "I know what I _told_ him," he said. "The reality will be quite different. When the brothers come – alone, as I will stipulate – we will be waiting for them. Do you think I would be foolish enough to leave those loose ends? The Eppes brothers and their women – none of them will leave here alive."

**…**

End, Chapter 12


	13. Remind Me To Kick Your Ass

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 13: Remind Me to Kick Your Ass **

**…..**

Charlie looked like he was going to throw up.

Don looked like he was going to kill the first person who so much as bumped into him.

Colby looked speechless; which was perhaps the most frightening part of this entire circus.

David looked again at the grainy photo displayed on Charlie's cell phone. "I don't believe this is happening," he said. He glanced at Charlie. "Tuttle just walked up to you on the street?"

Charlie's arms were wrapped around his torso, as if he was cold. He nodded miserably, not meeting David's eyes. "How did he know when Amita was getting back? How did he know no one would miss Robin because she was leaving anyway?"

Wright placed both hands flat on the table in front of him. "Granger," he spat.

Colby jumped. "Sir."

"Check for surveillance devices. Charlie's cell, Don's cell, Robin's house and office, Don's apartment, Charlie's house. The damned 7-11 on the corner." He sighed. "Everything's probably been swept clean by now, but maybe they missed one."

Colby nodded. "On it."

Wright continued, looking at Don and Charlie. "I don't suppose either of you tried to call Robin or Amita?"

"They've got Amita's phone," Don reminded the Assistant Director. "The photo and the text went to Charlie's phone from Amita's." As he spoke he was pushing a number into his own cell. He brought the phone to his ear, listened for a few seconds, and frowned. "Voice mail for Robin."

"Sinclair, try to trace those cells. GPS chips are most likely gone by now, but we should cover our bases anyway."

"Absolutely," David agreed. He shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. "What...what are we going to tell Liz and Nikki?"

Charlie finally lifted his gaze from the tabletop, looking first at David, and then, almost frantically, at Don. "We can't tell anyone else! It's too dangerous!"

"I agree," said Don quietly.

"They saw the three of us head out of the bullpen," Colby noted, "with Charlie in tow. They've gotta know something is up."

"How about this," David offered. "We tell them, straight up, that A.D. Wright has formed a special task force - Don, Charlie, Colby, me - and we aren't free to discuss any specifics. The four of us have clearance levels higher than either Liz or Nikki; we can let them deduce from that what they will. I can tell them we're counting on them to handle the lion's share of the team's open cases."

"That might work," responded Wright slowly. "Gives them just enough of the truth, and keeps them busy at the same time."

"Problem," intoned Don quietly, and all eyes turned to focus on him. "I mentioned to Liz last week that Charlie wouldn't be consulting anymore." Colby's mouth dropped open and David lifted his eyebrows. Don cut them off before they could speak. "I was working my way up to telling you guys. I guess...maybe I was hoping he'd change his mind."

Charlie was looking at the tabletop again. He didn't reply, but blinked a few times.

"Sinclair, you present your scenario to the agents," suggested Wright. "Let it appear that you knew about Charlie's consulting status - you can say he only agreed to help this one last time, as a special favor to me."

"Shouldn't Don tell them? He's the SAC," David pointed out.

Wright shook his head. "Don and Charlie won't be in the office much." He glanced at Don, then returned his attention to David. "Since your SAC has yet to name a Second In Command, I'm suggesting that you assume certain leadership roles, at least temporarily."

David shot an alarmed glance in Colby's direction. "Assistant Director, Colby's..."

Wright interrupted him, holding up one hand. "You've been with the LA bureau longer, Sinclair - even accounting for your brief assignment in D.C. You've taken more of Quantico's leadership modules; protocol says that it should be you - and it's only temporary. Besides, the cover story is your idea, and we always sell our own ideas better than anyone else could."

"For the record, I agree with him," Colby interjected. "We've got more important things to worry about right now, anyway."

Charlie suddenly paled, and glanced around the small diner where the men had gone to talk, fearful of real and imagined surveillance. "Is there a restroom in here?" he asked plaintively, struggling to stand. "I think I'm going to be sick."

**...**

Alan sighed and frowned into the phone. "Murray, I'm sorry to hear that," he said sincerely to his older brother. "Are you in much pain?"

He listened for a few moments, wincing. "You had to wait that long for surgery? You should have called me earlier, or had Rebecca call..."

He listened some more, then ran his hand through his hair as he sunk into a chair at the kitchen table. "You're kidding. China? Can she get some kind of compassionate leave or something? Who's going to take care of you when you get home?"

A few more seconds and he was shaking his head. "Absolutely not, Murray Eppes! As long as _I__'__m_ your brother, you won't be spending one day in a place like that, let alone the three weeks it will take Rebecca to get home." He grinned and rolled his eyes as Murray protested. "That _'__I__'__m__ the __big__ brother__' _crap hasn't worked for years," he chuckled. "Besides, I've been thinking about taking a trip out to visit you anyway - we haven't seen each other since you and Becky came out here..." he stopped, remembering why they had come. For Margaret's funeral.

He visibly shook himself. "Anyway. I can't believe Rebecca not only embraced Christianity, but is now a missionary in China! You and I haven't set foot in a temple or a church since we were old enough to stand up to Dad. Now Rebecca's a Christian missionary - and _my_ son has regular meetings with a rabbi!" He laughed. "Don, believe it or not. Faith is not quite scientific enough for Charlie."

The brothers spoke for a few more minutes before Alan got up from his chair and headed in the general direction of the solarium, where there was a desktop computer. "I'll check out some flights, talk to the boys and call you again tomorrow," he promised before he disconnected the call. "Take it easy and get some rest, Murray."

He flipped the cell closed, shoved it into his pocket, frowned again, and started mumbling to himself. "I wish Amita had made it back on schedule. I'd like to see her before I leave..." He sighed, sat in front of the desk in the solarium, and waited for the computer to power up. "Stupid Murray. Roller skating at his age! He's lucky he didn't break more than his hip!"

**...**

Amita's voice wavered. "I was afraid...I thought those men were c-coming b-back to..."

Robin leaned more heavily into Amita and tried to sound confident. "I don't think they'll try anything when Tuttle is around. Besides, the bigger one didn't even seem all that tempted." She allowed a smile to curl her lips. "It was almost a little insulting."

Amita started to snicker, but it quickly turned into a choked sob. "I've been such an idiot!"

Robin twisted her hands in her cuffs – an automatic reflex, although she knew well that it was futile. "What? Why?"

"I did everything wrong," Amita lamented. "I left when Charlie was still in the hospital, and I stayed away for six months! I made him promise to give up consulting."

Robin was surprised. "Well...that's understandable," she finally said. "I mean, look at all that's happened to Charlie during his consulting gigs. He's been shot at - three times that I know of - the sniper, that suspected child molester who shot up the bullpen, the guy who followed him and ran his car off the road when that reporter disappeared... Then he and Marshall Penfield walked right into a Victor Tuner robbery - I don't even want to think about what could have happened there. Finally, he was almost killed and half-blinded by Tuttle and Audrey. Consulting is apparently pretty dangerous."

Amita sniffed. "I thought he was putting himself in harm's way, just so he could be around Don. I thought he was taking on all of Don's enemies - like Tuttle."

"Maybe he was," said Robin quietly. Until she had listed Charlie's narrow escapes aloud for Amita, she hadn't really realized their sheer quantity.

Amita shook her head. "No. I was like everybody else; I thought they were both wrong about Tuttle. But they were right to go after him; to try to stop him. They were trying to protect the world at large from an evil, soul-less, hateful man."

Robin felt a stab of guilt. "I was pretty hard on Don, too."

Amita sniffed again. "I even told Charlie he had to move. Leave Los Angeles, and Don. And Cal Sci. Larry. Even Alan, if he wouldn't come with us - everything that's important to Charlie; I told him he had to choose."

Robin was surprised again. "Did Don know that?"

"I don't know," Amita answered. "Maybe. Charlie told me he'd do it - all of it. Quit consulting, leave Los Angeles. He might have told Don about his decision."

"Maybe Don was preoccupied with more than Tuttle," Robin mused.

"Almost as soon as he told me he'd do what I asked, I knew that I was wrong to ask," Amita admitted. "I tried for a few days to talk myself into believing it would all work out, but I finally decided to come home and apologize in person...take it all back..." Her voice became clogged with tears. "If Tuttle kills us, Charlie will never know...and if Charlie has stopped consulting, no one will ever find us..."

Robin swallowed and tried to lighten the mood. "Hey. Hey, now. Don's caught a few bad guys on his own, you know." She twisted at the cuffs again, and winced. "Plus, for a skinny broad, I'm surprisingly good at beating the hell out of people." A giggle escaped Amita and Robin smiled and continued. "Charlie carries your ring with him everywhere," she confided. "He never stopped loving you, and he'd do anything for you. He would quit consulting for you. He would move for you. And he will find you. I'm just along for the ride."

Amita smiled through her tears and pressed her shoulder into Robin's. "I hope you're right," she whispered. "I just want to live long enough to tell him how wrong I was, and how much I love him."

"Hmpf," grunted Robin, yanking on the chain. "I want to live long enough to rip Don's clothes off, myself."

**...**

David Sinclair's expression was serious and sincere. "I'm sorry I'm not at liberty to give you more details," he said. "Assistant Director Wright made it very clear that he was hand-picking this team in part because of our clearance levels."

Nikki frowned and elbowed Liz. "You don't have the same clearance as Granger? I mean, I know I'm a few years behind y'all, but I thought the rest of you were all pretty much on the same level."

"Me, too," Liz answered, her voice tinged with suspicion. "Although who knows what's real with Colby Granger? He had to have pretty high clearance for the DOJ to set him up as a double agent with the Chinese."

"Plant," corrected David. "He was planted in the organization to get information on Dwayne Carter. And yeah, that took some high clearance." He offered a small smile. "He may be higher than all of us."

Nikki shrugged. "Whatever. I'm still stuck on the fact that you just said the two of us are working a backlog of cases two feet thick, with no help."

"Hopefully this won't take long," David soothed. "Just do the best you can. I'll see if Wright can't get you two some back-up."

Liz eyes twinkled and she wrinkled her nose. "Just don't send us Edgerton," she teased. "With him and Nikki in the same room, nothing will get done."

Nikki didn't so much as bat an eye. "Nothin' _legal_, leastways."

**...**

The light turned green, Don accelerated, and the Craftsman soon loomed in the glare of the headlights. "You got your story straight?"

Charlie nodded miserably. "I was upset because Amita called. I was already waiting for her at the restaurant, and had no idea that she'd delayed her flight. I called you, and drank until you picked me up."

"Right," Don confirmed. "That's one reason we left your car down at the Bureau." He glanced sideways at his brother. "That, and you're too upset to be driving anyway."

"I don't understand how you can do this," Charlie whispered. "How can you turn yourself on and off like this? Robin was in the picture too!"

"Shut up!" Don barked, his voice suddenly harsh. "Just shut up and let me do what I have to do!" Even in the darkness of the SUV's interior he could see Charlie pull back. Don sighed, and ran his hand over his head. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Anyway, I already called Dad and gave him the story once, so you don't have to do much to convince him it's true. Just look upset; you know, like you look right now. Maybe a little less scared." He pulled into the driveway and waited for Charlie to say something. When his brother didn't answer, Don rattled on. "Just get upstairs as soon as you can. E-mail Mark Vincent and ask him if he ever saw or heard anything that implicated Tuttle, not just Audrey. Gather up all your files and back everything up. Two flash drives, so we'll have two original copies. We'll put one with everything Colby gets from the Bureau tonight, and store it at Wright's in his underground safe. The other..."

"I know!" hissed Charlie. "I was in the room, dammit. It will go in David's safety deposit box in his bank. Son of a bitch, Don, I'm scared and I'm pissed; I'm not deaf and brain-dead!"

Don saw the kitchen light flick on, and knew his father would be looking out the window soon. "Right," he said, squaring his shoulders. "I wasn't sure. I thought maybe you missed that part while you were out in the alley throwing up."

Charlie fumbled for the passenger door handle. "When this is over," he growled, "remind me to kick your ass."

**...**

End, Chapter 13


	14. Cherry Cobbler

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 14: Cherry Cobbler **

**…..**

Doris Sackett dished up a healthy portion of warm cherry cobbler, plopped a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top, and walked carefully toward the kitchen table. She placed the offering almost reverently in front of her brother. "Here," she said. "Picked the cherries myself. Would've churned some ice cream, but I didn't have time." She shot a nervous smile toward her husband. "Harry ran out and got us some of this store-bought stuff."

Sam didn't answer, but he picked up his spoon and started shoveling.

"I don't believe it was personal," Harry mused, ignoring Doris's warning glances. "Figure you were...collateral damage. Folks caught Bill Sikes with his hand in the cookie jar, and they wanted rid of him – and everything that reminds them of him. Everybody knows you and Sikes are hunting buddies, tight as brothers, almost. Sikes campaigned harder for _your_ election than he did for his own – so they figure you must be dirty, too."

Doris fell into an empty chair with a solid plop. "That's idiotic," she fumed. "Investigation didn't turn up _anything_ on Sam! Them people are vindictive, small-minded, sons of..."

"Dorie," interrupted Sam quietly, "this is mighty fine cobbler. Your husband might want some."

Doris crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Harry. "He knows where it is," she huffed.

Harry sighed and lumbered to his feet. He continued to talk to Sam as he dished up his own dessert. "Goes without sayin' we got a place for you here in the campgrounds," he said. "Hardy folks start showing up during spring break, but we won't get really busy until after Memorial Day." He carried his bowl of cobbler and ice cream back to the table. "Maybe y'all should take a vacation, first. Get your mind off things."

Doris snickered sarcastically. "Hmpf! That's right, Sam, a week or two at Disney World and you'll completely forget that the people you live to serve and protect recalled you in a trumped up special election!"

Sam allowed a tiny smile as he leaned back in his chair. "Dorie," he reprimanded mildly, "leave the man alone. All he's doing is talking about what's real. We ain't got room for an elephant in this kitchen."

Doris bit her bottom lip and stared at the table top. Harry swallowed a bite of cobbler. "So you still think Bill was set up?" he asked?

Sam looked at him. "Yeah," he answered, his tone serious. "Yes, I do. I just can't prove it."

Doris glanced up. "But the money is missing from the county coffers, and sitting in his account!"

Sam frowned. "I'd give anything to know how it got there, too. Bill sure as hell didn't do it – and without a change of venue, he doesn't stand a snowball's chance in hell, when he finally gets his day in court. Look at the landslide of votes in this recall. Even if the judge grants a venue change, it don't look good." His face darkened in disgust. "His own high priced attorney is telling him to deal."

Doris looked thoughtful for a moment, glanced at Harry, and then back at Sam. "Maybe you should go to L.A. on your vacation."

Sam snorted. "I was just there a few months ago, remember?" He winked. "Course, you two were a mite busy, it being your honeymoon and all."

Doris blushed, and Harry excitedly took up her line of thought. He slapped a palm on the table, splashing cherry juice all over. "She's right!" he crowed. "Go see Charlie. If anybody can trace everything that happened to that money, and how it ended up in Bill's account, it's Charlie."

Doris nodded. "Besides, he needs the distraction. When Alan called last, he said Charlie is still working on that Tuttle situation, like a dog with a bone. You'd be doin' him a favor, giving him something else to think about."

Sam looked interested. "You think he'd mind?" he asked. "Do the Eppes know what's going on here?"

Doris's blush deepened and she dropped her gaze to the tabletop. "I didn't mention it. I was sure it wouldn't come to this." She looked up, defiant. "You saved that boy's life last summer – and his brother's, too. Then you helped saved them again, from that woman in Los Angeles. They both know that... 'course he'll want to do whatever he can to help you!"

Harry nodded, mopping up cherry juice with his napkin. "She's right," he agreed. "You owe it to yourself, and to Bill, to get this straightened out. Just sorry we didn't think of it sooner."

Sam scraped the bottom of his bowl with his spoon. "Well," he said almost casually, "things moved a mite fast the last couple of months." He glanced up and winked at Doris. "Tell you what. I'll call Bill and have him e-mail everything he's got to me. I'll go home and gather up my own documentation – sorry as it is – and then I'll hit the road." He grinned. "Hell, I don't got nowhere to be tomorrow anyway. Might as well be on a flight to L.A."

Doris smiled in relief and clambered to her feet, reaching for Sam's empty bowl. "Good idea. Better fill up first; them airlines don't serve free meals, anymore!"

**...**

Alan watched Charlie ascend the stairs, then turned to his oldest son. "Thanks for taking care of him," he said. "Come into the kitchen for a minute. I want to talk to you about something."

Don hesitated; unsure he could appear "normal" before his father for any length of time. "I should be getting home," he started.

"Please," interrupted Alan. "It's important. Besides, I made some cherry cobbler, today. Tried a new recipe Doris Sackett gave me. You want it warmed up a little, with ice cream?"

The thought of food made Don's stomach a little queasy, but he followed his father into the kitchen and sat at the table. Alan busied himself preparing the cobbler. After he put two dishes of cobbler into the microwave to warm, he stopped at the refrigerator long enough to remove some ice cream from the freezer. He pried off the top, grabbed an ice cream scoop from a drawer near the stove, and set the carton on the table near Don.

"I think I'll join you," Alan smiled. "I've already had some, but it's very good, even with frozen fruit. I can't imagine what Doris's fresh-picked cherries do to this recipe!"

"She's a great cook," Don remembered. He shifted impatiently in his chair. "What's up? Charlie will be fine; he just needs to sleep it off."

The microwave dinged and Alan turned to remove the dishes. "Oh, I know," he responded, pausing to pick up a pot holder from the counter. He carefully withdrew one serving of cobbler and transported it to the table, placing it in front of Don. He sighed as he turned to retrieve the other helping. "I was disappointed when I heard Amita's return was postponed. I was looking forward to seeing her again." He shut the microwave door and brought the second dish of cherry cobbler to the table, placing it in front of the chair closest to the one Don was sitting in. "Dig in, son. Don't let it cool off – and have some ice cream."

Don looked at the blood-red cobbler and nearly lost his lunch. He grabbed the ice cream and scooped like a madman, mostly to change the cobbler's appearance. He felt as if he was staring at a bowl of Robin's blood.

Alan smiled, bemused. "Save some for me, please. Just one scoop."

Don reddened, scooped some more ice cream and plopped it into Alan's bowl. "Sorry."

Alan's smile widened. "It's all right. I have plenty of ice cream." He dug into his cobbler.

Don waited for his ice cream to melt the blood-red cherries into a cotton candy pink puddle. "What's up?" he repeated.

Alan swallowed, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and was frowning when he took the napkin away. "Murray called tonight," he answered. "He's done something idiotic – what is it with little brothers today? Anyway, he broke his hip. Roller skating." He rolled his eyes.

Don's first reaction was guilt. He found that he was relieved to hear bad news – it gave him a legitimate reason to seem concerned. "Wow," he finally managed. "Bummer."

Alan hesitated, full spoon halfway to his mouth. "No kidding." He swallowed another bite of cobbler and ice cream. "Worst part," he continued, "is that Becky is out of the country, and can't get home for almost three weeks." He arched an eyebrow. "Seems a lot has happened Murray never mentioned. Rebecca not only became a Christian, she's now a missionary in China!"

Don's expression of surprise was genuine. "What? Little Becky, who invited me to her Bat Mitzvah?"

Alan laughed. "The very same. So you see, I know what you're going through, when you have trouble getting Charlie to talk about things. At least he called you tonight, thank God."

Don picked up his spoon and pushed tentatively at the mound of cobbler in his dessert bowl, avoiding his father's gaze. "Right."

Alan downed several more spoonsful of cobbler before he spoke again. "I hate to leave Charlie here alone right now, especially with Amita not coming back when she'd planned, but someone's got to help Murray until Rebecca gets home." He huffed in disgust. "He was going to stay in one of those rehab facilities."

Don's sense of guilt increased even as his relief did. "Of course you have to go," he said, trying not to appear too eager. "He's your brother. What else would you do?" Alan smiled, and Don went on, thinking as he spoke. "Don't be worried about Charlie. I'll keep an eye on him; Wright talked him into one last consult, and put us both on a special task force, so we'll be working together a lot. I might even stay here at the house." He felt good enough to brave a bite of cobbler soup.

"Task Force?" asked Alan, concerned. "Is it dangerous? I don't want Charlie in any more danger. Ever."

Don was pleasantly surprised as the cobbler hit his stomach. "Whoa," he said. "No, no, it's not dangerous. Just a...financial thing. Requires special clearance, so the Task Force is just me, Charlie, Colby, David, and Wright." He leaned forward to hunch over the bowl of cobbler. "This is really good, Dad."

Alan smiled in relief. "Told you. And if you're sure it's not dangerous, I'm glad Charlie will be consulting with you again. It will give him something to do while he waits for Amita."

_You have no idea_, Don thought, and just like that, his appetite disappeared. "I think I'm going to warm this up more," he said, standing and heading for the microwave. "When are you leaving?"

Alan was already scraping the bottom of his bowl. "Are you sure?" he asked, surprised. "You'll melt all the ice cream. There's a flight to Newark at noon tomorrow – but I could wait a day or so."

"It'll be great all melted together," Don insisted, placing the bowl in the microwave and starting the machine. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. "No reason to delay, Dad. I've got you covered."

Alan smiled, and stood. "All right, then. I should pack. I'd better check upstairs; I might need to do some laundry first." He crossed to the sink, rinsed his cobbler bowl, and was placing it in the dishwasher when the microwave dinged. As he exited the kitchen, he winked at Don. "I'll be back down in a minute. Enjoy your soup."

Don grinned, and waited until Alan pushed through the swinging door into the house proper. Then he fed the cobbler to the garbage disposal.

**...**

Colby sat across from David in a booth in the same diner the "Task Force" had met in earlier. His face was grey, but he attempted a smile. "At least it's almost four a.m.," he said, shoving a stack of files across the table. "The waitress who is on now doesn't know we were here with Charlie earlier; even if she heard about the mess Charlie made in the alley, she has no reason to connect it with us."

David emitted a quiet huff as he slid the files onto the seat next to him. He arched an eyebrow as he stared at the bowl of cherry cobbler in front of Colby. "Unless you make your own deposit," he noted. "I can't believe you're eating that. It's time for _breakfast_, you idiot."

Colby shoved a heaping spoonful into his mouth, and was not quite finished chewing yet when he answered his partner. "Breakfast is the first meal of the day. I haven't been to bed yet, so it's still yesterday."

David rolled his eyes. "You are truly both disgusting and illogical," he noted.

Colby took a sip of water and smiled. "Says Spock Sinclair."

David's white teeth flashed as he grinned. God, it was good to work with Colby again - to have his best friend back. He lowered his voice and leaned forward over the table. "Any trouble?" he asked.

Colby shook his head, and aimed for a particularly juicy looking cherry with his spoon. "Nah. Rice and Ebert were there - they caught a homicide late yesterday afternoon - but I made a point of asking them for their opinions on the bank heist, and showed them a few things in that file. I'm sure they think I just couldn't sleep and was there to work on the bank job." He nabbed the cherry and corralled some melting ice cream to accompany his choice.

"Didn't see anyone else?" David pursued.

Colby at least swallowed this time before he answered. He shook his head, then shrugged. "Building security, a few techs. I managed to hit the copy room during the tech's lunch break, so I didn't even have to explain what I was copying."

Sinclair nodded, but his expression remained grim. "Good. Good."

Colby began to scrape the bottom of the bowl. "This isn't bad for diner food. I'm sure Alan could make better. You sure you don't want something?"

David frowned. "Coffee's fine, thanks." He lowered his voice again, this time to almost a whisper. "I'll take one of these sets of files to Wright, and put the other in my safety deposit box as soon as the bank opens."

Colby sighed in pleasure as he swallowed the last of his cobbler, placed his spoon on the table, and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. "You going to Phil's now? In the middle of the night?"

David's face registered surprise. "Phil?"

Colby smirked. "Special dispensation. We get to call him _'__Phil__'_ when we're working together clandestinely."

David smiled. "Good to know. Nah, we talked about it and decided there's a possibility that Tuttle's having him watched, since he was involved in the first investigation. It should be okay for him to run into us at work – that's his job, after all – but if anybody's watching, it will look strange for me to show up at his house at four in the morning. He gave me the combination to his locker at his gym. It's one of those 24-hour places. I went by around six last night and told them I just moved here and wanted a free trial for a week, so I can get into the locker room now with no problem. I'll leave the files in his locker, and he'll pick them up in a couple of hours when he goes in for his swim."

Now Colby looked surprised. "Phil swims?"

"Every day," confirmed David. "Who knew, huh?"

Colby assessed his partner seriously. "You've got time to use that membership trial for real before the bank opens," he advised. "Gettin' a mite chunky around the middle, there."

"Hey!" David protested. "I'm not the one eating cobbler and ice cream in the middle of the night!"

Colby laughed and signaled for the waitress. "I work it off in the field," he answered. "I haven't been sitting behind a desk for the last six months." The waitress appeared before David could respond, and Colby charmed her with his best smile. "That was great cobbler," he enthused. "I think I'd like a cherry pie chaser."

**…...**

End, Chapter 14


	15. The Idaho Connection

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 15: The Idaho Connection**

**…..**

A soft knock sounded on the door of the Craftsman, and Don's head shot up. Across the room, he saw Charlie's head do the same, and he twisted in his chair at the dining room table, watching, as Don went for the door. Don un-holstered his service weapon as he went, and paused at the door before opening it just a crack, then, upon seeing who it was, immediately re-holstered the weapon. He wasn't surprised to see Colby; in fact he'd guessed it was him, but it didn't pay to let their guard down even for a moment. Because of the need for secrecy, Don couldn't assign protection to Charlie – even agents skilled at melting into the bushes would need to be spelled once in a while, and he was too afraid that they were being watched, and that their watchers would pick up movement or personnel changes by any agents outside. Therefore, Don had decided to stay at the Craftsman himself. It made sense if they were to work on the files, he told Charlie. What he didn't tell him was that he was doubling as bodyguard, too – that he didn't trust Tuttle any further than he could throw him. The fact was, Don was safer there, also, than he would be at his own apartment; two of them would be harder to take down than one.

Charlie's eyes widened when he saw the gun come out, and they stayed that way, even when Don let Colby in through the door. Charlie looked at Don questioningly, but didn't say anything. Colby nodded at Don, and then looked at Charlie and spoke loudly for the benefit of any possible hidden cameras. "So, Charlie, who you working for this time? DOJ? No wait, I'll bet this is NSA."

Charlie grinned, but it was a rather sickly expression. He played along. "Colby, you know I can't talk about it. Can you just do the sweep?"

Colby hefted the medium sized black duffel bag he was carrying. "Sure I will. Although why the NSA can't do their own sweeps when they give you an assignment, I'll never know."

"This will allow him to work at home," Don said, adding to the fiction. "Otherwise, he was going to have to spend hours holed up in a secure location downtown. We appreciate it, Granger."

Colby grunted, amiably. He headed for the stairs, murmuring quietly to Don as he passed, "You can go ahead in to the office and collect what you need – I'll be here a while."

Don nodded. Colby's quiet remark told him that the original file – both the paper and electronic pieces of it - had been dropped off with Wright, as planned, and that a dummy had been put in its place. Don and Charlie were now free to take the dummy file and associated records and begin to alter them. Colby's remarks about the NSA were pre-planned also – if Tuttle did have hidden cameras in Charlie's house, there was a good probability that they would record whoever removed them – namely Colby – so they had to pretend to have told him a story about Charlie doing a consulting job for the government, and wanting his house swept. Tuttle wouldn't be happy that his listening devices or cameras were removed, if there were any, but at least he couldn't accuse Charlie and Don of telling Colby anything, based on their conversation.

He drifted over to the dining room, and stood looking over Charlie's shoulder. Charlie had gone back to work on his laptop, and was scanning through a file. Don's eyes narrowed as he looked at it. They hadn't downloaded any of the electronic files from the office yet. "What's that?"

Charlie looked up at him, a bit guiltily. "One of my – uh -," he broke off, his eyes darting around as if looking for hidden cameras. "- electronic files. I – uh – still had a couple."

Don stared at him. Did he mean a file related to the Tuttle case? Had he really held onto some of them, even though Don had commanded him to give them up? And hadn't he said he was giving up consulting? Then why was he hanging onto files to begin with? Clearly, Charlie had been less than forthcoming – but now wasn't the time to talk about it – not until they were sure they weren't being overheard. Don scratched his head. "Yeah – uh – well, I'm going to head into the office, to pick up some files." He looked at Charlie meaningfully, and Charlie nodded, and looked quickly back down at his computer.

The trip into the office was mercifully quick; it was mid-morning and rush hour was over. Don stepped into the bullpen and nodded to Nikki and Liz, busy at their desks, and headed immediately for his computer. He sat, and rubbed his head; he felt lousy; in fact he'd felt as if he were fighting off something – the flu, maybe. Or maybe it was the situation that made his head throb and put his gut in knots. He clicked on the keyboard, and opened the shared drive, typed in the password, and then went immediately to the Tuttle case files, and then opened the folder, which also required a password. Then he proceeded to download the electronic files onto a jump drive. He had to fight down the urge to glance around him as he worked. Tuttle had mentioned being able to check the original files periodically – did he have a plant in the office? Or, more likely, it was a plant in another office that had file privileges at the FBI – the DOJ was the most probable option – after all, Tuttle was having Don and Charlie drop off their changes at that office. At Robin's office.

The thought of Robin made his gut tighten. She and Amita had looked unharmed in the photo, and Tuttle had told Charlie he would return them unharmed if they cooperated, but again, Don didn't trust the man. He hoped - he prayed - that Tuttle was keeping his word. If not, the man had better do some praying himself.

It took a few minutes, but Don finished downloading the files, logged out of the shared drive on the server and pocketed the jump drive. As he stood to head for the file cabinet to retrieve the paper file, he caught David's eye across the office. He was standing by the elevators, and gave Don the slightest jerk of his head – affirmation that it was okay – that the dummy file was indeed in the drawer, waiting for him. Don gave him the briefest of nods in return, and headed for the file cabinet, opened the drawer, and retrieved the Tuttle file. A quick backwards glance told him that no one, including Liz and Nikki, was watching. He tucked the file under his arm and walked back toward the elevators. David had turned as he approached and passed the elevators themselves, and headed toward the back hallway.

At first, Don thought that David was headed for the small private conference room, but David kept going, into the back hallway, which, as usual, was deserted, and through the door to the stairwell, swiping his ID through a card reader to release the electronic lock. There were several floors in the building and some of them housed other offices, and so the back door to the FBI offices had an electronic security lock installed. Don hesitated, and glanced behind him. No one had followed; no one seemed to be observing him. There was nothing in the back hallway but the door to the stairwell, a janitor's closet, and the restrooms – and those restrooms gave him a good enough excuse for heading back that way, in case anyone was watching. Don took a breath, swiped his own ID, and headed through the door to the stairwell, and followed David up the stairs. One flight, then two, then another. Third floor up - a large insurance company had most of the office space on that floor.

The door to that floor had no electronic security. As he opened it, he came out into a hallway to find David standing at the end of it, next to Wright. As soon as he made eye contact, David opened the door next to them, and they went inside. Don headed down the hall after him, wending his way past a few of the employees of the insurance corporation, who paid absolutely no attention to him. Reaching the door, he slipped inside.

He found himself in a small conference room. Wright and David were seated at the table, and Don joined them. "It was swept by Colby before he went to the Craftsman," said Wright, indicating the room with a sweep of his hand. "Although I doubt Tuttle would target a room on another floor than our offices." He looked at Don. "How's it going?"

"No messages, no contact, if that's what you're asking." Don sighed, and rubbed his face, wearily. "I have the dummy files now – I'll head back to the Craftsman and Charlie and I can start making changes as soon as Colby is done." He looked at David. "How about on your end?"

David shook his head, ruefully. "We analyzed the picture from Charlie's phone. It's fairly clear – Amita's phone is decent – but there aren't many details to analyze. We found her phone, by the way. I put out a trace on the GPS as soon as I could, but they'd already ditched it. It was wiped clean, and left turned on in a dumpster down in Carson."

Don frowned. "Still in good working order, and planted - they wanted us to find it."

David grimaced. "Yeah, that's what I figured. I dressed in some old clothes and drove down there just to see exactly where the signal was coming from, but I didn't retrieve it - I just drove past the alley. I was afraid it was a set up - they'd have someone watching, to see if anyone came to get it. I think it might have been a way to check up on whether or not you'd told anyone in law enforcement about the kidnapping. We also figured the dump location for the phone was meant to throw us off their real location. It's close enough to the airport to be feasible, but we doubt it's anywhere near where they are holding them."

He pulled a blow-up of the photo out of the file, and Don had to steel himself. In the larger photo, he could see more detail; see the fear in the women's eyes, the tension in their bodies. He found he was gripping the edge of the table tightly, and willed himself to relax as David pointed to the photo. "It appears to be some kind of no-frills office, typical of what you would find in a factory or warehouse – you can see the worn linoleum tile floor at the edge of the mattress, and the jointed panel walls. The piping that comes down behind them looks dated – see, it's cast metal – most new places use PVC pipe nowadays. I'd guess the place is at least 50 years old, and maybe older. You can't see any windows in the picture, and I'd guess from the lighting, and knowing the captor's desire for privacy, that there aren't any. That would point to an old office building or factory with interior offices – it could be one of hundreds around the L.A. area."

"The only other clue we have to go on is time," said Wright, "the time it took them to get Amita from the airport. We know when her flight landed, and we know when Charlie received the picture of the two women on his cell phone. We can narrow the time down a little further yet by knowing that they probably communicated with Tuttle first before they sent the picture – that would have taken a few more minutes."

"Charlie got a text from Amita's phone a few minutes before he got the photo," Don pointed out.

"Yeah, that meant they probably had her phone, but that doesn't mean they were at the location with her yet – although if they weren't, they must have been close," said David. "We thought we'd throw this info at Charlie, and see if he could narrow down the search area based on the type of building and the time it took them to get from the airport."

"Colby's installing our own taps as soon as he takes out any that he might find at Charlie's house," added Wright. "If Tuttle calls you on Charlie's house phone, it will pick up the call and record it. He'll also have some apparatus there for you to hook up your cell phones in case a call comes in on them. You've done that before and you know this, but you'll need to tell Charlie to hook up his cell phone to the recording device _before_ he answers the call. Otherwise they might hear the click when he connects."

"I'm gonna hit Tuttle's phone records from the last couple of weeks," said David. "He's been pretty careful, but maybe we'll find something there."

"We could use someone to keep eyes on him and some of his people, especially Spike Johnson," sighed Wright, "but it's too risky to put Colby or David on that assignment. Both Tuttle and Spike know what they look like."

'_And__ we __don__'__t__ have __anyone __else_,' thought Don morosely.

As if reading his thoughts, Wright continued. "I don't think we can afford to add anyone to our team – at least not yet. We have a little time, however – the time it will take you to modify the files. In the meantime, we'll try to find a break – something – a mistake."

Don nodded, trying to swallow the sick feeling in his gut, as he glanced again at the photo on the table. "I'd better get back," he said softly. "Colby will be done soon."

**….**

Charlie closed his eyes, rubbed them, and swallowed. His good eye was feeling tired and scratchy – overused, he knew – his head was aching and his gut, which hadn't seemed to calm down since he'd lost his lunch in the alley outside the diner, was still doing flip flops. He was having a hard time fighting down the rising sense of panic that threatened to take over, to steal coherent thought. What was the phrase Don used? _Check__out_. He was on the verge of checking out, and it was taking everything he had to stay focused.

His head jerked up as the front door opened, and his suddenly leaping heart thumped painfully back into place as he saw that it was Don, returning from the office. At about the same moment, Colby came back downstairs, and upon seeing Don, headed toward him, and the two began a quiet conversation. Colby had been working the whole time Don had been gone, starting with a check of Charlie's cell phone and computer, but after that, Charlie hadn't paid much attention to him; he'd been trying to immerse himself in the three electronic case files that he had taken back. Even now, he had no idea whether Colby was done with his sweep or not, so when his cell phone rang, he started, and his uneasiness increased when he saw the name in the cell phone display. Sheriff Sam Jarrett, from Heise, Idaho. What could he possibly want?

He was aware that both Colby and Don had stopped talking and were moving toward him, and he head Don rap out, "Who is it?"

"Sam Jarrett."

"Sam Jarrett?" echoed Don, with a puzzled frown. He hesitated, the phone still ringing, and then shook his head. "Aren't you going to answer it?"

Charlie was about to tell him he'd let it go to voice mail, when it hit him – Don wanted him to act normally – Colby must not be finished with the sweep yet. There was probably still surveillance on them. "S-sure," he stammered, and hit the call answer button. "Hi, Sam. What a surprise," he said, trying to sound surprised, instead of rattled. "How are you?" He hesitated, wondering if he should put the phone on speaker so that Don and Colby could hear it, then realized that any planted listening devices would also pick up the conversation, so he didn't.

Sam Jarrett's dry drawl floated through the phone. "Fine, Charlie, how are you? Listen, you'll never guess where I am."

Charlie played along. "Where?"

"About to board a plane to L.A."

'_Shit._' For a moment, Charlie thought he'd spoken that aloud, and he could feel his heart start to thump again. This could not be good – they couldn't possibly host a member of law enforcement right now. "Uh – really!" he glanced wildly at Don. "What are you doing on a plane to L.A?"

"Fact is, Charlie, I could use your help," drawled Sam. "I have some – personal – problems, and I thought you, with your computer skills – well, I was hoping you could help me out."

"Uh -," Charlie stammered, looking wildly at Don. "I – uh – I'd love to help you, but I'm really busy now, Sam -,"

The rest of his statement was broken off as Don snatched the phone out of his hand. "Sam Jarrett – it's Don – how are you?"

Charlie took a breath. Thank God. Don was about to tell Sam that now was not a good time for a visit, and end the call. Instead, his breath caught in his throat as Don said, "Yeah, Charlie can help you out – if you can help us out. We're in some trouble ourselves, and we could use another set of eyes – someone who won't be recognized."

"Don!" Charlie hissed, leaping to his feet and making a lunge for the phone.

Don deftly sidestepped him, and spoke as if Charlie was invisible. "Yeah – okay, see you in a couple of hours. Don't come to Charlie's house - call me when you get here, and I'll tell you what to do."

He disconnected the call and handed the phone back to Charlie, who snatched it out of his hand. "What are you doing?" he hissed, with a frightened look around the room.

"Relax, Charlie." Colby spoke up. "I'm done – this place is clean as a whistle. In fact, there was nothing here to begin with. It's safe to talk."

Charlie stared at him and then at Don, and then back at Colby, his jaw working, and then made a sudden dash across the room. He barely made it into the bathroom before he lost the contents of his stomach. He sank to his knees, shaking and coughing, and felt a strong but gentle hand on his shoulder. "Chuck. Hey, buddy, you okay?"

Charlie felt nausea rising again, and retched into the toilet in response, but at length the rebellion in his gut subsided, and he managed to climb shakily to his feet. Don was regarding him with worry and a bit of speculation. "You okay?" he asked again, and Charlie could see Colby behind him, outside the doorway.

"Yeah, I think so," Charlie muttered, and then looked at Don. "Are you nuts? Why'd you bring Sam in on this? You have to realize that we're probably being watched."

Don motioned with his head and turned for the living room, and Charlie followed him on wobbly legs, and sank gratefully onto the sofa that Don indicated. "Sit down," Don said, unnecessarily, and then headed for the kitchen. Colby lounged against the back of the opposite armchair, silently. Don returned with a glass of ice water, and handed it to Charlie, then sat across from him. "We need some help, Chuck, that's why I told him to come. We need someone that Tuttle or his men won't recognize – someone that local DOJ or law enforcement won't even recognize, because we don't know who might be in Tuttle's pocket. Sam would be ideal – he's experienced, and no one knows him here."

Charlie sipped, and closed his eyes gratefully as cool water slid down his throat. It felt scratchy and raw. He cleared it and opened his eyes. Don and Colby were both watching him, and he could guess what they were thinking – that he couldn't handle this. He sat up a bit, and squared his shoulders. "Okay, I get it, I guess. What are you going to have him do?"

"Shadow Tuttle or his men – maybe Spike Johnson," Don replied. "My guess is Tuttle will lay low – he probably won't visit where they are keeping the girls, because he'll know we might try to watch him. He'll rely on his men to take care of that scene – so we need to watch them, and Johnson would be a good one to start with."

"At this point, he's about our only start," said Colby, with a grimace. "Back when Derek Mace and his guys ran things, we had a pretty good idea who worked for Tuttle. Now, with Mace and Nardek out of the picture, the only one we're sure of is Johnson – we know he must have some guys working for him, but we don't know who they are yet. Maybe Sam Jarrett can find them, at least, if he can't find out where they're keeping the girls."

Charlie sighed. "Yeah, you're probably right." He frowned, closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "I wonder what he wants me to do."

"I'll tell you what _I _want you to do," said Don decisively. "I want you to take a nap. Now. You look like hell."

Charlie shook his head. "There's too much to do. You brought the files back, right?"

Don stood; his mouth in a firm line. "Yeah, I did, and you're not getting a look at any of them until you get a couple hours of sleep. We need to stall Tuttle a little anyway – we can't finish altering these files before we find the girls."

Colby looked at Don. "Why don't you catch a nap, too? I've got a good excuse to be here – probably the only excuse I'll have for the duration. I'll keep an eye out, and you guys both can get some rest. I can hang for a couple of hours. By that time, Jarrett's flight'll be coming in. I can go meet him, if you want."

Don nodded, and Charlie could see his shoulders slump with relief. His brother was tired, too, Charlie realized. "Yeah," said Don, "that would be good." His face softened, and he looked at Charlie. "Come on, Chuck, head on up. I'll be right behind you."

He was true to his word. Charlie dragged himself upstairs, and he had just gotten his shoes off and crawled into bed when he heard Don stumping up wearily to his old room. Charlie's eyes fell on a picture of himself and Amita on the dresser, and he gazed at her. She seemed to be smiling back at him, and on impulse, he grabbed her pillow and held it tightly, as if he were embracing her. He fell asleep that way, holding the pillow, his face still turned toward her picture.

**…**

End Chapter 15


	16. Hold Me

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 16: Hold Me**

**…..**

Amita sighed sleepily, sensing the warmth against her back. "Charlie," she murmured, her eyes still closed, and a smile curved her lips. "Hold me."

There was no response, and a slight frown puckered Amita's forehead. As she slowly wakened, her olfactory senses kicked in first – the musty smell of the old mattress hit her nose, just as she opened her eyes. She blinked once in confusion, and then she realized where she was – still in the shabby office, with one wrist cuffed to the metal pipe, lying back to back with Robin who was similarly constrained, and also sleeping. As the realization hit Amita, she felt her throat constrict. "Oh, Charlie," she whispered, and a tear ran down her cheek. "Please, help us."

**…..**

Charlie tossed and turned, and finally sat up.

He had dozed off for no more than half an hour before he jerked awake, his mind racing, his head aching. He lay there for a moment, trying to get back to sleep – he knew he needed the rest – but finding sleep was futile. He stared at the ceiling, trying to think of all the things he needed to do; he rolled from one side, then to the other, and finally pushed himself up. As his feet hit floor he felt momentarily dizzy, but it passed quickly, and he stood and shuffled wearily through his room, along the hall, and down the stairs.

He nodded at Colby, who was lying on the sofa. Colby looked deceptively relaxed, but his eyes were alert. "Hey, Charlie," he said as he sat up, and the blue eyes clouded with concern. "You didn't sleep for very long."

"Couldn't sleep," Charlie muttered, and he headed straight for his computer. He sank into a chair in front of it and stared at the closed laptop for a moment, one finger tapping the lid. Instead of opening it, however, he grabbed his cell phone, and searched through the contacts until he found the number he wanted. He hit dial, and when the call was answered, he said, "Trina? This is Charlie Eppes."

Trina Watson's voice floated over the line. "Dr. Eppes! What a surprise! What can I do for you?"

"Is Mark available?" Charlie asked. "I had a few questions for him – I was wondering if he had time to get online."

"Sure, Charlie – he's already on, but I'll tell him you want to talk to him. If there's nothing else, I'll let him know and hang up – hate to run, but I'm about to change an IV."

"Sure – thanks." Charlie disconnected, and he flipped open his laptop.

Colby strolled over and peered over his shoulder. "IM-ing Mark Vincent, huh? Any particular reason?"

Charlie tapped at the keys, and pounced on the instant message box as soon as it popped up. "Not entirely sure," he murmured. "I'm just looking for anything we might have missed."

"Huh," said Colby. He watched for a moment, then said, "You know Liz met with him and got his story."

"Yeah, I know," said Charlie. "I read the report. She interviewed him thoroughly on what happened in the library – after Don and I were captured. His statement on why he called to begin with didn't have much detail, however. He said he overheard Audrey on the phone with someone – I just wanted to ask him if he remembered any other phone conversations – maybe Audrey mentioned some other names. I know it's a long shot after all this time, but maybe there's something…" He paused and read the IM response on his screen.

"You know Don brought some stuff from David for you to look at – they want you to do an analysis of possible places they might be holding Amita and Robin, based on the time it took them to get Amita there from the airport."

"I know," said Charlie quietly, now typing again. "They didn't need to ask – I already did that analysis. Even with that restriction, we're still looking at a 25 square mile area – we need to narrow it down somehow. I'll give it to you before you go."

Colby hesitated, and then spoke gently. "David found her cell phone. It was left turned on in a dumpster down in Carson." Charlie stopped typing and Colby paused, taking in his tortured expression. "He had to leave it there – he was afraid it was a setup by Tuttle to see who came to retrieve it, but he drove past the alley."

Charlie stared at him. "They wouldn't leave it anywhere near where they were keeping them –," he broke off, ignoring the chat box that was blinking at him, and pulled up a map of L.A. of the screen, jabbing a finger at Carson. "Judging by that location - that actually will narrow the search are down to north of 105 – because they wouldn't be anywhere near that location, which is _south_ of 105." His voice rose excitedly. "I'll have to do an analysis, but it should cut the search area roughly in half!"

He stared at the screen, his mind churning, already on the analysis, but was jerked back into the present as Colby reminded him. "You've got Mark's IM waiting."

"Yeah," he muttered, and pulled the IM box back up. "Okay – let me ask him what I needed to ask him, and I'll crank out that search area."

**…..**

Sam Jarrett sat in his rental car, seemingly dozing, but his half-closed eyes missed nothing, including the other vehicle that pulled up in the convenience store lot. He breathed a bit easier when he saw Colby Granger slide out of the driver's seat, and Sam unlocked the doors to his own vehicle. He scratched at the unshaved stubble on his cheek, ran his hand through the dark brown hair that had been a salt-and-pepper gray until just an hour ago, and wondered again exactly what Don and Charlie Eppes had gotten into this time. After he landed and called Don Eppes to tell him he was in L.A., all Don had told him on the phone was to alter his appearance, in case Tuttle had seen him in the photos taken last year at that Paris woman's house, and so he had stopped, checked into a hotel, and had done a quick dye job. His only other instruction had been to drive to this convenience store, meet with Granger, and to do whatever Granger told him to. It was more than odd, but strangely exciting, and Sam felt his pulse quicken as Granger approached. A second or two later, Granger was in the passenger seat, with a grim nod. "Sheriff Jarrett."

"'Sam, especially now," replied Sam. At Colby's quizzical look, he explained his situation – the fact that his friend Bill Sikes was being framed for theft and that Sam had been ousted from his job – guilty by association. "So right, now, it's just 'Sam,' not 'sheriff,' he concluded. "Although I'm hoping Charlie might be able to figure out how that money got into Bill's account and clear our names. That's why I was headed out here to L.A. – but that can wait. What's going on with Tuttle?"

Colby tried to reassure him. "I'm sure Charlie can help you out with your situation," he said. "Don might be able to pull some strings, too – both of them are a little busy now, themselves, but I'd bet Don could call in a favor or two from some FBI cronies in the Boise office." He sighed, his eyes scanning the area outside the vehicle for any action. "Yeah, Tuttle's back in the picture – and we need your help."

Sam's eyes gleamed. This was actually too good to be true – instead of cooling his heels for a few weeks as he had anticipated, he was being asked to do something – apparently something interesting. "Name it."

Colby hesitated for a brief moment, then took a deep breath. "There aren't too many of us in on this, Sam – me, Don, Charlie, David, and our boss, Assistant Director Phillip Wright – that's it. It's pretty hush-hush. Tuttle's not only back, this time he's gone over the top – Don thinks he's been pushed to the brink – Tuttle's lost most of his people. His own man Nardek, along with Audrey Montague/Paris tried to swindle him, and he's desperate, and probably looking for revenge. He kidnapped the girls – Amita and Robin – you met them at the barbecue a few months ago."

Sam gaped at him. "Kidnapped! Is he crazy? And why would that be hush-hush?"

"He probably _is_ crazy – or like Don thinks; desperate. He's leaning on Don and Charlie to fix the case files on him – to delete and alter information, and then for Don to close the case. If they do that, Tuttle says he'll return the women unharmed. He says if any of them talk about it afterward, he'll come after anyone close to them – even from prison."

Sam pursed his lips, doubtfully. "It sounds fishy."

"I agree – Don thinks so too, but for now, he and Charlie are playing along, to buy time. We're trying to find out where they are holding Robin and Amita. The trouble is, Don and Charlie aren't supposed to tell anyone what they are doing, and David and I – well, let's just say that some of Tuttle's men, including his top man, Spike Johnson – know what we look like. We can't tail them – if they see us, they'll suspect that Don and Charlie have brought the Bureau in on the case. We need someone – someone, who if he happens to be seen, won't be recognized. That's where you come in. We'd like you to tail Spike Johnson – here's a picture, and a DMV printout that has his vehicle information – see where he goes, who he talks to. Tuttle's organization is pretty lean right now – it's conceivable that Spike is overseeing the kidnapping himself."

Sam couldn't stifle a grin. "Love to – on whose authority? Just in case I need to act as a law officer."

Colby thrust a paper at him. "We got Wright's approval before I left the house. If you sign this contract, you'll be a de facto FBI agent, for the duration of the case."

Sam's grin widened, and he licked his lips. "Got a pen?"

**…..**

Don stiffly made his way downstairs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The nap had been much needed - he could have used more sleep, but three hours was a big help. It had eased the pounding in his head, and his stomach seemed to have settled down. It was good of Colby to stick around while they slept...

That thought was derailed as he glanced at the living room area, which was notably devoid of beefy FBI agents, and then at the dining room, where the click of keys drew his attention. Charlie was up, and back at his computer already. He had taken out his contact lens and was wearing his glasses, which probably meant his eyes were bothering him. With a slight frown, Don trudged over to his side. "Where's Colby?"

Charlie glanced up, a bit furtively, Don thought, and then looked quickly back at his computer screen. "He left about an hour ago," he said, his voice a little raspy. "He was going to meet Sam."

Don frowned. "About an hour ago - and you were up? Did you sleep?"

Charlie glanced up at him; and with a sigh, removed his glasses and rubbed his good eye. He looked like hell, Don thought; his face was pale and drawn, his dark eyes a little too bright, with shadows under them. Running on empty. "Uh, yeah, some." He looked back down, guiltily, and stifled a cough. Instead of proceeding with his work, he sat there, just holding his glasses.

Don grunted. "Meaning 'not enough.' Never mind, I'm good for a while now; if you need some rest I can keep an eye on things."

Charlie sat silently for a moment longer, just staring at his computer, and then looked up, and the expression on his face made Don's frown deepen. "Don -," Charlie began, then stopped. He sighed and put on his glasses, and tried again. "I just exchanged some messages with Mark Vincent. He added some detail, but nothing that really helps – at least not as far as indicting Tuttle is concerned. There's something you should know, however."

Don eyed him, not liking the expression on his face. "What?" He pulled a dining room chair out and sat down.

Charlie sighed. "You remember when Mark sent me the email, and we went out to see him? He wanted to warn us that Audrey had convinced Nardek to put out a hit on us. We assumed that he had overheard her that same day."

"Yeah?" prompted Don, his brow furrowed. He wondered where Charlie was going with the conversation; he was re-stating the obvious.

"And you remember; I found those phone calls between Spike Johnson and an unknown number, dated the day before."

"Yes," said Don a little impatiently. "Colby and David questioned him on it, and didn't get anywhere."

Charlie went on, "Well, we had been thinking that Audrey didn't order the hit on us until the day after those calls – the same day we showed up at her house, but Mark confirmed that it was actually the day before. After he heard her on the phone, he had spent a day trying to figure out how to get an email to you, and finally found my CalSci page instead. That meant that orders for the hit _did_ go out the day before, and that was what Spike Johnson's phone calls had to be about."

Don's brow furrowed. "So what's your point? We know they're all guilty – and when we find them and Robin and Amita, we'll have them on kidnapping charges, among other things. The timing of the call doesn't matter – why go chasing after something we can't prove?"

Charlie's face twisted with regret. "I know. I almost hate to bring this up again, but –," he paused, and said softly. "It confirms that Aaron Shulman was probably collateral damage. We originally thought that LAPD's theory – that his shooting wasn't connected to our case – had some merit, because he was shot the same day we went to Audrey's house. Their theory was, if the hit had just been issued and they hadn't gotten to us yet, then the hit men probably weren't organized enough yet to pull off any attempt. But if the hit was actually issued the day before, they would have had time to plan…," His voice trailed off and he looked at Don sympathetically.

Don felt a nasty sinking feeling in his gut. It was true that Aaron Shulman looked a lot like him, and he had been to his apartment prior to going to the synagogue. And if the hit had been issued the day before, Nardek and Spike Johnson would have had plenty of time to find someone to do it, and stake them out at his apartment in time to see Aaron Shulman there. It was conceivable, hell, it was more than conceivable. "Shit," he swore softly, and ran a hand over his face, wearily. This case had done nothing but put the people around him in jeopardy, from day one. Charlie, and his lost sight, Aaron Shulman, also permanently disabled, and now Robin and Amita...

Charlie eyed him with sympathy. "I didn't want to add to your boatload of guilt," he said quietly. "But we need to think about what Tuttle might be up to, besides just asking for us to alter the case files. It apparently wasn't Tuttle who put out the hit on us, unless he told Audrey to set it up – but even if not, we need to be prepared for the fact that he wouldn't think twice about killing Robin and Amita – and us – in the bargain, once he thinks the files are altered and the case is closed." He coughed again and winced.

"Yeah, you're right," Don said heavily. He sat there, feeling suddenly very tired. He noticed that one of the house phones had been moved to the table, and that Colby had connected the call tracing and recording apparatus to it. He stared at it, wishing he had a way to call Tuttle. He had a strong urge to hear Robin's voice, to know she was okay…

Charlie coughed again, this time hard enough that he had to turn away. He collected himself, wiping his eyes. "The good news is; I've narrowed the search area down to an area within 25 miles of the airport, and north of Interstate 105. I've been doing a search on buildings 50 years old or older, and there are quite a few, but it looks like the most likely prospects are in East L.A. Should we tell Sam?"

Don thought a minute. "No, not yet. I'd rather not predispose him to think anything – we can use what he finds to check out your theory." At that moment, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and he removed it quickly, his breath catching as he saw the unfamiliar number. He sprang to his feet and connected the phone to the recording equipment, and caught a glimpse of Charlie's wide-eyed startled expression as he turned it on, then answered. "Eppes."

"Don Eppes. I'm calling about your business deal with my boss." An equally unfamiliar voice floated out over the speaker. "We know where you are, at your brother's house, and we know an agent came to visit you there today. That fact is making my boss very nervous, and he doesn't like to be nervous."

"That agent was here for something else," Don lied, flatly, thankful that Colby hadn't found any surveillance equipment. They had the story prepared – the one that involved telling Tuttle that they told Colby that Charlie was working on an NSA assignment, but if Don didn't have to use it, he wouldn't – it was more elaborate and thus less convincing. "It wouldn't look right if I dropped all of my other cases – I have other things I need to keep up with, to keep up appearances." He spoke coldly, levelly, but he could hear his voice vibrating with suppressed rage. "If you're watching us, then you also know I put my father on a shuttle to LAX this morning; he has to leave town for a few days. With him gone, Charlie and I have a nice private place to work. You tell your boss that we have the files here, and we're working on them – but before we go any further, I want some assurance that Robin and Amita are okay."

There was brief silence, then the voice said, "I'll call you back." Before Don could protest, the call disconnected. He grimaced; he had hoped the man would stay on the line long enough for a trace. Charlie was staring at him; he looked as though he was barely breathing, and then the phone rang again, the same number. There was no sound for a moment, and Don rasped out, "Yeah? Hello!"

"Don?"

Robin's voice came over the line. She spoke tentatively, but she sounded blessedly normal. Don felt his heart constrict so hard for a moment, he couldn't breathe. "Yeah – yeah, Robin, I'm here. I'm here."

"Don, we're okay. Both of us – Amita is here, too."

"Amita?" Charlie found his voice, just barely - the name came out as a croak, as he sprang to his feet, and Don could hear Amita answer in the background.

"Charlie?"

There was a confused chorus of voices on the other end, both girls speaking at once, then the voice cut in again, loudly. "Shut up!" As quiet ensued, the voice eased and the man redirected his remarks. "That proof enough for you, Eppes? Now get to work." The line disconnected again – and again, the call duration was far short of the time needed to trace it. Don jotted down the number, but he knew already that it would be a prepaid cell phone, the number untraceable. Charlie stood silently, and Don looked toward him in time to see him remove his glasses again, and wipe away a tear with a shaking hand. He was swaying back and forth on his feet, and suddenly, without warning, the glasses dropped from nerveless fingers, and Charlie pitched forward.

**…..**

End, Chapter 16


	17. Altered States

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 17: Altered States**

**…..**

Charlie had felt a little warm when he collapsed into Don's arms, but he had only been unconscious for a few seconds; he had gotten to the couch under his own steam, admitting to exhaustion and an understandable off-the-charts stress level. Don chewed on his bottom lip and regarded his now-napping brother from where he sat behind Charlie's laptop, at the dining room table. His brother hadn't gotten much sleep before, when Colby had been there; and then the calls from Spike, talking to the girls...it was perfectly understandable, the collapse. Don wasn't being a bad brother, by not immediately calling the paramedics. He wasn't.

Charlie had just fainted. He just needed some rest. He had said so himself, after he had sleepily told Don how to start altering the Tuttle files. They needed to get the first set of doctored files to Robin's office tonight, to keep Tuttle from becoming suspicious.

Charlie's snoring sounded a little congested, and he wasn't moving around in his sleep as he usually did – a couple of worrying signs, there – but Don repressed his big brother instincts. Even if Charlie was getting a cold, that was nothing in light of the situation Robin and Amita were in – and Charlie would be the first one to say so.

Don took one last look at his brother, and then went back to work on the files.

**...**

Sam's stomach growled.

It had taken him several hours to get a tail on Spike Johnson. First, he had used the DMV information to find Spike's apartment building, but Spike's vehicle wasn't there. The brownstone tenement was run-down and full of crackheads, in Sam's estimation. After half an hour of studying Spike's neighbors, he had finally taken the risk of approaching one. Sam's story had been that he was a former employer of Johnson's, and he was looking for him because Spike had ripped him off and owed him some money. The toothless apparition sitting on the front steps of the building had grinned like a maniac and said he wasn't surprised at all; Spike owed everybody money. The methhead's eyes had gleamed, never losing sight of the twenty dollar bill in Sam's hand.

Just then, Sam had caught a glimpse of Spike's vehicle, pulling around the corner. He slipped the methhead the twenty, quickly. "Don't say I was here," he said. "If you say anything, you'll be buying yourself a heap o' trouble." He moved on down the street, all the way to the corner before he turned, and saw Spike emerge from his car and enter the brownstone. Sam took the opportunity to head for his own car. He drove it around the corner and up two blocks, and positioned it on the curb a block up from Spike's car, facing the same direction. After about an hour, Spike came out again, and got in his car. Sam started his vehicle up, and pulled out into the street, allowing a car to get between him and Johnson.

He had tailed Johnson to Roscoe's Ribs, a greasy spoon in East L.A., situated on a corner in a rough neighborhood, and had parked in the back lot, within sight of Johnson's vehicle. At first, Sam thought Spike had gone into the rib joint for a meal. But by the time Spike Johnson finally emerged three hours later, Sam was guessing that he had decided to stay and have a drink or two. While Sam had been sitting outside the rib joint, Colby had called his secure cell phone to ask where he was. The agent had sounded excited when he told him, saying that he was within the target zone; Charlie's calculations had shown that the women were probably being held in a warehouse in this general area. But if Spike was part of holding them, he wasn't spending much time with them, Sam concluded. The weasel was just hanging around a low-class restaurant.

Now, he followed Spike back to his brownstone, wondering if all of this was just a huge waste of time.

Maybe Tuttle was working alone, or had hired someone else to handle the kidnapping.

His stomach growled again, and he found himself wishing he had some of Dorie's barbecued ribs, right about now.

**...**

"Hello, Donnie." Alan sounded as exhausted as Charlie still looked, even though his brother was still sleeping on the couch, almost five hours after landing there.

Don tried to put his heart into the conversation. "Hey, Dad. How was the flight?"

"Okay," Alan's voice was dispirited, and Don's family hinky alarm went off.

"Just okay?" he asked.

"I got sick on the aircraft – first time in my life. It was embarrassing."

Don frowned, and shot a glance at his sleeping brother. Was he flushed with a fever, now? "Turbulence must have been bad, huh? How's Uncle Murray? When is he being released?"

Alan sighed. "Not as soon as we'd hoped," he hedged. He coughed slightly, then cleared his throat. "Don, could you or your brother do me a favor?"

Don leaned back in his chair. Favors were never good in his family – mostly because nobody ever asked for them unless they were desperate. "Dad?"

Another sigh. "I've sort-of been admitted to the hospital."

Don's alarm shot to full alert and he stood behind the table. "What? What happened? Are you all right? Let me talk to a doctor." His voice was becoming louder, but Charlie was sleeping through the whole thing.

"Calm down," urged his father. "Take a breath. I'm fine, Don, I just...passed out, a little, when I was visiting Murray." He tried to chuckle, but the sound choked off into another cough. "Never pass out in a hospital," he said when he had caught his breath again. "They don't take it too well."

"Where's the doctor?" Don asked again, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

"They think it's just a case of the flu," Alan said, ignoring his question. "Charlie said half the kids on CalSci's campus were down last week, he probably brought something home." Alan coughed again. "Where is your brother? Is he all right?"

"He's… out for awhile," Don answered more or less truthfully, looking in Charlie's direction again. Great. This was just great, and all he needed right now. A sick brother, who should probably be in the hospital, if he had whatever had hospitalized Alan; a sick father, all the way across the country; an injured uncle, with no one to take care of him; a kidnapped girlfriend, languishing with his kidnapped almost-sister-in-law; and a headache the approximate size of the Grand Canyon. Come to think of it, he didn't feel so hot himself. "What do you need?"

"Well, they were going to release Murray into my care tomorrow, but now they're keeping me in here to run a bunch of stupid tests," Alan complained. "They'll send Murray to one of those homes unless I set up a private nursing system for a few days, but I didn't bring that much money with me. Charlie knows where I keep my credit cards; he handles my finances, and he knows which card has the highest limit – could you overnight it to me?" After his long speech, Alan dissolved into another round of coughing, this one prolonged. There was a clattering sound, a rustling, and then a woman's voice came on the line.

"Hello? This is Mr. Eppes' nurse, Angel."

Don sank into his chair again. "Angel, this is Mr. Eppes' son, Don. I'm in Los Angeles. How is my father?"

"He's just resting," the nurse assured him. "We don't have all the test results back yet, but I can tell you that the doctor is concerned about pneumonia, because of your father's age."

Don heard Alan grumbling "I'm not old" in the background, and smiled in relief. At least the old man was still obnoxious. "My brother has been showing signs of illness as well," he said. "Please don't repeat that, and worry my Dad."

Angel tried to find a way to address Don's concern without being obvious. "Yes, there's a nasty strain of flu this year," she said. "Medical intervention is often required. Your father told us that he may have been exposed; anyone else in that position might want to be on the alert for symptoms, and opt for quick treatment."

Don's heart sank. This was just getting better and better. "Is there a doctor I can talk to about my father?" he asked.

"I'll have a doctor call you when we have some of the test results," Angel promised. "Mr. Eppes is asking me to give you the mailing address of the hospital; he says you need to overnight something to him?"

"Yeah," Don said, rubbing his forehead and listening to Charlie cough in his sleep. "Let me have it."

**...**

Larry sat in the CalSci medical clinic and sniffed, feeling truly sorry for himself.

He couldn't believe that he had been attacked on his own home court. He had just spent months in Switzerland, and come home in fine shape. Just a few years before, he had lived in a space station, and for a while in the steam tunnels of CalSci, for heaven's sake, and had made it through those experiences none the worse for wear; at least physically. He wasn't even teaching full-time, he had only been on campus for a few seminars, since his return. Still, at least one germ had managed to find him – no doubt brought his way by an unsuspecting student who welcomed him back with a hearty handshake.

He should have stayed in Switzerland a few more weeks, maybe come home with Amita. Charlie had called him just that morning, and told him that Amita had decided to extend her stay yet a bit longer - and Larry was convinced, he should have stayed, too. Instead, he found himself in a waiting area of a small, overworked clinic, herded there with dozens of sneezing and hacking students, like so much cattle. They were all hoping there would be enough Tamiflu, or some other miracle drug, to last until their turns with the doctors and nurses. He sniffed again, and considered calling Charles and Alan. If they heard he was ill, they would insist that he come to the house and stay with them; they hadn't wanted him to take a room in the boarding house near campus in the first place, and at the moment, Larry would gladly listen to an endless round of _"__I__ told__ you__ so__" _if only he could have a bowl of Alan's chicken soup.

His synapses were slow, and the connections in his stuffy head were shorting out, but somehow Larry associated the thought of Alan's soup with illness and injury, and he remembered that he had spoken to Alan just yesterday – or was it the day before? – and Alan had said that he was leaving town; going to Newark to take care of his brother Murray, who had broken a hip in a roller skating incident. Alan had been appalled that a man Murray's age had been roller skating in the first place, but Larry had been charmed. Now, however, Larry would find a bowl of soup and his friend's sympathetic presence much more charming. He thought it odd that Charles hadn't mentioned that Alan had gone - but maybe Charles knew they had talked. His thoughts were going around in circles, he realized, and he wasn't making much sense, even to himself. He hadn't been feeling quite so bad earlier, when he talked to Charles … Thank goodness this week was spring break - the whole campus was going to need the time off to recuperate.

He sneezed into a tissue, and thoroughly wished he had moved to the space station permanently.

**...**

Charlie had roused enough to fine-tune Don's work on the Tuttle file. All phone records connecting Tuttle to Spike Johnson, Audrey Montague, Derek Mace – even Ralph Nardek, who at one point had been a legitimate employee of Tuttle Enterprises – it was all gone. Where there would have been large gaps of time, a possibly suspicious situation, false records had been entered. Charlie's long nap had left him clear-headed enough to tap into other phone logs – something Don was dismayed to learn Charlie knew how to do – and now it looked like Tuttle had ordered Chinese food a few times, called a pool cleaning service, and even ordered flowers from a shop near his L.A. estate. Don had wondered about that one, until Charlie showed him – on the legitimate, back-up file – that Tuttle often ordered flowers from that shop when he was in L.A.; apparently, the asshole liked flowers. Don promised himself that he would send some to the bastard's funeral.

After stopping to overnight mail his father's credit card, it was nearing quitting time by the time Don got to Robin's office with the doctored file; Charlie was on his way to the Bureau with another copy. Charlie would use his credentials to get into the file room, send the clerk off on a wild goose chase, and slip the altered Tuttle phone records into the file cabinet while she was gone. Don fervently hoped that Charlie managed to pull it off without passing out again; he had considered switching up their assignments, but it made no sense. People were used to seeing Don around Robin's office – even though she was supposedly out of town, anyone who saw him would just assume he was either there on FBI business, or getting something Robin had forgotten in her office, and asked him to retrieve. Likewise, Charlie was a well-known figure at the Bureau, whether Don was there or not. He consulted for teams other than Don's. The file clerks and techs all knew him. No one would find his presence in the office unusual – but Charlie in Robin's office? That would raise suspicions. Not so for Don, as he made his way toward her office door. The maintenance man replacing bulbs in the hallway didn't even give him a second glance.

Robin's office door was unlocked. Don had brought his key, but someone must have been expecting him. His gut clenched as he opened the door and caught a whiff of her delicate floral scent. Yeah, Tuttle would need flowers at his funeral, all right – he had dared to threaten the woman Don loved, and before this was over, Don would find a way to kill Tuttle with his bare hands. Then he'd give him CPR and bring him back to life, just so Charlie could take a shot at him, too.

He wanted to stay in the office for a while – he felt Robin's presence there – but he knew he was being watched; he had been instructed to place the file on the corner of Robin's desk, and leave, so he did. He almost jumped out of his skin when his cell rang just as he was climbing into the SUV.

He jerked the phone from his pocket, half-expecting it to be Spike Johnson on the other end. "Larry" flashed on the phone's tiny screen, and his heart fell; he had been hoping to talk to Robin again. He was going to put the phone away without answering, but then it occurred to him that Larry just might show up at the Craftsman, and that was the last complication they needed – so he brought the phone to his ear.

"Eppes," he said in greeting, falling back on habit. "Larry. How's it going?"

His friend sneezed into the phone. "Not well at all," he answered in a congested voice. "I just spent half the day at the campus medical clinic, exposed to all manner of illness. The doctor gave me some Tamiflu, but by now, it's probably too late for that." He coughed pathetically. "Charles does not answer his phone," he complained. "I was hoping he had some of Alan's fine soup in the freezer?"

Don closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead. "Sorry to hear you're not feeling well, Larry. Charlie's not doing so great either." His eyes suddenly shot open, and he sat up straighter in the driver's seat of the SUV. "Did you say you have Tamiflu?"

"Yes," Larry answered. "I took the first dose already, but the doctor gave me enough sample packets to last a week. Charles is ill also? He didn't say anything when I spoke to him on the phone this morning. Has he been to the clinic?"

Don lowered his voice, even though he knew his phone and vehicle were not tapped – Colby had checked them out, too. Larry had been a good friend to his family; he could be trusted. "Larry," he said with some urgency. "Listen to me. I can't tell you what's going on, but I can't afford for Charlie to spend half a day in a clinic right now – and neither can he. _I__ need__ that__ Tamiflu._"

He silently blessed his brother's taste in friends when Larry answered without hesitation. "Then you may have it, Don. I have a prescription – I can get more. Should I bring it to you, or do you want to come to the boarding house?"

Don could have kissed Larry's feet. "I'll come to you," he said. "I'm downtown right now, not far from campus. I'll stop at that deli and bring you some soup."

"Thank you," said Larry, sneezing again. "Is there anything else I can do, Don?"

"This is great, Larry, this will help a lot. Let me get back to you on the other offer, okay?"

Larry sneezed a third time. "Of course. You know that I will always do whatever I can to help."

Don nodded, and he felt an uncomfortable lump in his throat. "I know. Thanks. I'll be there as soon as I can." He disconnected the call, tossed the phone onto the passenger seat, and shifted the SUV into gear.

**...**

End, Chapter 17


	18. Make It Quick

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 18: Make it Quick**

**…..**

Colby sat at the small conference table, sipping at his coffee and scowling at David as the other man fiddled with the video controls. "Don is going to kill us when he finds out about this," he warned. "Not only are we endangering the secrecy of our investigation and, in his view, the safety of Robin and Amita – we're leaving him out of the loop. Don doesn't like to be left out of the loop."

Phillip Wright took a sip of his own coffee, and then presented his case. "By the time he finds out about this, Robin and Amita will be safe," he said. "He'll be just as interested in taking down Tuttle's entire organization as we are, then." He paused, then grinned in Colby's direction. "Besides, if you're afraid of him, I'll tell him."

If Wright was expecting a reaction, he had to be disappointed when Granger just looked at David's back. "I don't have a problem with that," he said. "Dave, you have a problem with that?"

Sinclair turned around and moved to take a seat at the table, carrying a remote operating device. "Sounds like a suicide mission to me, but I think you just got yourself elected, Assistant Director."

Wright rolled his eyes. "Just start the feed," he grumbled. "Is this live?"

"We're getting live feed out in the van, but this is a DVD the techs burned for us; starts a few minutes before Don gets to Robin's office." David pressed _play_ on the remote, and settled back in his chair.

Colby scooted a little to one side, so that he would have a clear view. "I feel like I should have popcorn," he murmured.

"Shut-up," Wright shot back congenially, and David silently marveled at the ease of the relationship between the two men. Apparently, pulling Don and Charlie out of Tuttle's fires had forged a new friendship.

A man in coveralls crossed the camera's view, carrying a stepladder in one hand, and dragging a box of fluorescent bulbs behind him with the other. The time and date was displayed in white at the bottom right of the screen. The three agents watched the man ignore the camera and set up his ladder under a ceiling light several feet away. Wright narrated the action. "That's our man," he said. "He's changing a bulb. After he set up the surveillance camera in the light directly across from Robin's office, he changed two more bulbs on that floor, and one on the next floor." He smiled smugly. "He told me Don walked right past him and didn't even give him a second look. Just a maintenance man doing his job. Fast forward a little, until Don comes into view."

David did as he was told. Within seconds, they watched Don approach Robin's office door. David slowed the video, and the agents were silent as Don slowly entered the room and stood for a moment just inside the doorway. Then he reluctantly placed the file on the corner of Robin's desk, looked longingly at a photo of the two of them that was sitting on the opposite corner, and exited the office. "That's our boy," Wright noted. "Short and sweet; don't mess around. Fast forward."

David again increased the speed of the video. Don left camera range, as did the maintenance worker. For almost two minutes, they watched Robin's office door; then the picture jumped, and the time displayed at the bottom right jumped with it, ahead several hours. "This is a splice," David explained. "The tech said no one showed up for several hours after Don left; he spliced the feed for us, but he's got the original uncut video. I put a copy in my car – I'll be adding it to the collection in my safe deposit box as soon as the bank opens."

"Other copies?" Wright asked.

"The tech sent one for you; another will be catalogued into evidence right here in the building, but will be mislabeled – only we will know how to look for it." He slowed the video down. "Here. This was around four this morning."

The three agents watched as a man entered camera range, glanced from side-to-side, then pushed open Robin's door. The camera lost sight of him for a moment when he disappeared into the office and pushed the door partially shut, but in a matter of seconds, the door was opening again, and he was emerging from the office. He carried the file Don had placed on Robin's desk, and he was smiling. He pulled the office door shut, and took a key from the pocket of his jeans. He now appeared to be whistling. After he locked Robin's door, he took one last look around – fully facing the hidden camera for a few seconds – and then strolled off down the hall.

David stopped the video feed, the clicking of the remote the only sound in the small conference room for a few seconds. Phillip Wright was the first to break the silence. "My God," he breathed. "Am I crazy, or was that Eric Tramden?"

"Damn," said Colby. "I wonder if he's Audrey's replacement, or if he's been in Tuttle's pocket all along?"

Phillip Wright continued to stare grimly at the now-blank screen. "Doesn't much matter," he said. "His ass is mine, now."

**...**

Charlie ignored both the cup of tea in front of him on the kitchen table, and the pills in Don's hand. "I can't believe you did that," he complained in a near-whisper. "Now Larry's suspicious, and you were so late last night I almost called in Colby. I thought you'd been compromised." He stopped talking and cleared his throat.

Don frowned and slammed the sample packet of pills on the table. "Listen to you," he growled. "You can hardly talk. You're flushed with fever. Take the pills. You're no help to me – or Amita, or Robin – if you're passed out on the kitchen floor. And Larry just thinks you're working a case with me."

Charlie scowled and silently reached for the pills. "I'm only doing this for the girls," he whispered.

Don moved around the table to sink into another chair. "It's probably too late for the pills to do any good anyway." His voice was uncharacteristically despondent. "I don't even know what's going on with the investigation. I thought Colby would have a report from Sam by now, but when I went to the office, he and David weren't even there. Wright was in some administrative meeting...I couldn't very well interrupt him without calling attention to myself. Why isn't someone at least calling?"

Charlie carefully swallowed some hot tea, barely passing tiny pills through his swollen throat. He closed his eyes and swayed a little in his chair. "We've just got to trust them," he said, still whispering. "We stick to the plan. Today we alter the main Tuttle file, and make our drops tonight. Tomorrow you officially close the case. Then we'll get the girls back." He opened his eyes and looked hopefully at his brother. "Right?"

Don was saved from answering when his cell phone rang. He snatched it from the surface of the table and quickly read the display. "Unknown number," he said. He hastily connected it to the monitoring equipment, and answered the phone. "Eppes."

The voice was familiar. _"__You__ made __an __unscheduled__ visit__ to__ Professor__ Fleinhardt.__"_

Don's eyes hardened, and his voice was steel. "He's a close friend of the family, and he's ill. I took him some soup, as you must also know. Wouldn't it be more suspicious if we just ignored his illness? As it is, it probably still looks suspect to anyone who's paying attention – he's a close enough friend we'd normally bring him to the house, and care for him here."

Spike Johnson bought the story too thoroughly. _"__Then__ you __need__ a__ cover__ story __for__ not__ doing__ that.__"_

Charlie picked that moment to sneeze, three times in rapid succession, and Don flashed him a look that was both grateful and concerned. "Already taken care of," he said. "You just heard Charlie sneezing; I told Larry that Charlie's also ill – and Larry knows our Dad is out of town, so he just assumed that I'm staying here at the house to take care of Charlie. Trust me; I'm not going to compromise this...project...until the women are safe. I want to talk to them again."

"_If your brother is too sick to make the altered files look good, you'll never hear their voices again."_

Don's grip tightened on the phone and he stood to begin pacing the kitchen. "Don't worry about my brother," he snarled. "He's a freakin' genius; it'll take a lot more than a little cold to stop him. Besides, you should have the first file by now, the phone records – they look good, right?"

"_Just__ don__'__t__ get__ cocky,__"_ Johnson warned. _"__Do __this __right, __and __by__ tomorrow, __this__ could __all __be __over.__"_

"I want to talk to Robin," Don repeated, but the call disconnected before he finished the sentence. "DAMN IT!" he roared, lowering the phone to glower at the screen. He kicked viciously at his chair. "Damn it!"

**...**

Sam sat low in the driver's seat, and watched Spike Johnson pace the parking lot behind Roscoe's, making a call on his cell phone.

For the second day in a row, Sam had tailed Johnson to the rib joint – again directly from his apartment house. In fact, Sam had almost missed the show; he had just been approaching the brownstone when he recognized Johnson's car, pulling away from the curb. He had cursed and started the tail, mentally kicking himself for not just sleeping in his car the night before. But he hadn't wanted to attract undue attention. Johnson had been alone in his brownstone since 8 o'clock; Sam had moved his own vehicle around the street, to different locations, until almost two in the morning. Then an LAPD patrol car passed him, and he got nervous. He had called Granger, and the two of them had agreed that Sam should head back to his hotel, and pick up the tail in the morning. He was exhausted, and overslept; he got sloppy, and almost missed his mark.

Damned if _that_ would happen again. When he tailed Spike back to the brownstone later today, he would rent one of the vacant apartments himself, if he had to. He shuddered, thinking of the rats that probably already lived there, and shifted the newspaper he was holding, continuing to watch Johnson over the top of the paper.

He wondered if Spike was meeting contacts at the rib joint; granted, the place served breakfast, but why else would Spike get up at seven in the morning and drive out of his way to a place for coffee? Sam was surprised the place was even open this early, but apparently they did a brisk take-out service. He had seen several customers go into the joint and emerge a few minutes later carrying insulated containers. Roscoe's was either tapping into the clientele who couldn't get back this way for lunch – or this was some fancy new way of selling drugs that hadn't found its way to Idaho, yet.

He scratched at his chin and wondered if he should talk to Granger about that possibility. As he watched, Spike Johnson abruptly snapped shut his cell phone, shoved his hands into his pockets, and strode into the rib joint.

This was weird.

**...**

Robin had been watching her captors for several days, and she had decided that the one called Paully was her best chance. He was smaller than Dominic, for one thing. For another, even though she could tell he was...interested in the merchandise...he had always been respectful of her. Dominic frankly leered whenever he allowed her to use the restroom – the look in his eyes made her skin crawl – but Paully stepped to one side, and kept his back turned as much as he could.

Unfortunately, they were almost always there together – and sometimes the other one, Spike Johnson, was there, too. Tuttle hadn't been back since his first visit, but she often heard the men talking to him on their phones.

The cuffs were inescapable; Robin had worked at them until her wrists were raw. No, if she was going to be a hero, she would have to do it some other way. She lay on the filthy mattress and watched her captors through slit eyes. Dominic yawned repeatedly, and an idea began to form.

She and Amita were spooned on the mattress for warmth, and Robin snuggled her dark head closer to her friend's. "Amita," she whispered. "Don't answer me. Kick back with your leg if you're awake." In moments, Amita's bound feet arched, and the professor made contact with Robin's shin. Robin smiled, then she sighed and moved a little on the mattress, as if she was dreaming, drawing even closer to Amita. "Ask for food," she whispered. "Coffee. Try to get the big one to leave."

Momentarily, Amita began to pull away from Robin, and struggle to sit up. Robin flopped backwards and pretended the movements had awakened her. "Stop," she grumbled sleepily.

Amita continued to struggle. "I'm hungry," she complained. She raised her voice. "Hey! Didn't Tuttle tell you to take care of us? We haven't eaten since lunchtime yesterday. We need food, please!"

Paully approached the mattress and stopped a few feet away. "I'll call Spike," he promised. "I'll have him bring something."

"I'm hypoglycemic," Amita lied. "My condition is controlled well with diet, so I don't need insulin – but you've got to get me something to eat now, or I don't know what will happen. Even some coffee, with a lot of sugar in it...please!" She sniffed, and Robin wanted to thank the Academy.

"She's telling the truth," she chimed in. "Just get her some coffee, or something. Can you make some here?"

Paully hesitated, studied the women for a moment, and then turned toward Dominic. "I could use some coffee myself. Go to that convenience store – grab a couple of packets of donuts, or somethin', too."

Dominic scowled. "Why do I have to go?"

"Because I went yesterday," Paully answered. "And I said so. Look, if you want me to speak up for you with Tuttle when this is all over, you'll go after some damn coffee."

"_Fine!__" _grumbled Dominic. He yawned again. "I could use some air, anyway." He turned to leave the small warehouse office. "Be right back."

Paully turned to watch Dominic proceed through the warehouse. When he started to walk away from the mattress, Robin spoke.

"I'm going to pee my pants."

Paully glanced at her. "I'll take you to the bathroom when Dom gets back."

She squirmed uncomfortably. "It's not my fault! You people woke me up, and now I have to pee!" She peppered her argument with a little truth. "Besides, your friend makes me uncomfortable; the way he watches me. Please just take me while he's gone. Please."

She was a little surprised when Amita made an unplanned contribution to the conversation. "You are such a little bitch, sometimes. Whine, whine, whine."

Robin's shocked glance at Amita was genuine. "She really needs that coffee," she murmured.

"And she really needs to pee," Amita said. "I swear, if you let her pee all over me, I will scream bloody murder the next time I see Tuttle, and you'll _never_ work for him!" She tried to pull as far away from Robin as she could.

Paully rolled his eyes. "All right, just shut up, both of you!"

"I'll let you go first, when Tuttle gives you the go-ahead," Robin impulsively promised. "If you protect me from that goon, I'll...pay you back."

Interest sparked in Paully's eyes.

"Slut," Amita murmured.

"Please," Robin begged. "I'll hurry."

Paully glanced behind him, then approached the mattress. "Just you," he said to Robin.

"Fine with me," sniffed Amita. "Neither you or your friend is going to touch me, anyway – ever. I don't care what Tuttle promised you. My fiancé will find me."

"Shut up," snapped Robin. "Face reality."

Paully grinned while he loosened Robin's bindings. "Too bad I don't have a vat full of Jell-O for you two."

Robin let Paully put her to her feet, stumbling a little as the blood rushed back into all her muscles. "Thank you," she murmured as Paully steadied her. She forced herself to lean against him a little longer than necessary.

Paully took a small penlight from his pocket, and snapped on its tiny beam. He and Robin left the small office and walked through the warehouse to the door-less restroom. Robin steeled herself as she began to pull down her panties. "You don't have to look away," she whispered, "but I appreciate it when you do."

Paully smiled, a gold tooth gleaming in the penlight's glow. "Just make it quick," he said, turning his back and taking half a step to the side.

So Robin did.

**...  
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End, Chapter 18


	19. Crystal Clear

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 19: Crystal Clear**

**…..**

Robin clenched her jaw, and quietly rose from the commode and pulled up her slacks. Paully was still facing away from her, and she took a deep breath, then in one long quick stride, covered the distance between them, and kicked.

She'd been a cheerleader in high school, and had been noted for her high kicks. She aimed this one for Jupiter, via the middle of Paully's legs. Her foot connected with the more tender portions of his man parts – hard. He had been starting to turn, but at the contact he instead let out a strange sound, something between a squeak and a woof, and dropped like a stone.

She didn't stop, she kept kicking, even as he writhed on the ground, one hand covering his crotch, and the other waving blindly, trying to fend off the blows. She was sweating, terrified, and grunting with the effort, but the fear gave her strength, and finally she landed a kick to the side of his head. He slumped; abruptly still, and she stared at him for a moment in shock, her chest heaving. She forced herself to bend down and check his pockets, searching for keys. Then she ran for Amita.

Amita's eyes widened at the sight of her, and she gasped as Robin ran toward her, keys in hand, saying tersely, "I need to get your cuffs off – I'll explain later!"

Amita turned, offering her hands, cuffed behind her, and strung through the chain that linked her to the pipe that ran down the wall. Robin fumbled with the keys – there seemed to be a thousand of them, and several of them were small enough to be keys for handcuffs. Her hands were shaking.

"Hurry!" cried Amita. "Please – hurry!"

**...**

Dominic had gotten out of the office complex and had walked all the way across the vacant floor of the abandoned factory, his footsteps echoing softly in the gloom, when he realized he had no cash to pay for coffee. He stopped dead, pondering. It wouldn't do to pay by credit card – if any evidence led back to this place when it was all over, he wouldn't want a nearby store to have any record that he was there. It would be much safer to use cash; he would borrow some from Paully, and he should probably grab his baseball cap too, to obscure his face a bit from any cameras in the store. Nope, didn't want a record, didn't want nothin' tying him to this place…

He plodded back across the factory floor, and opened the door to the block of offices in the middle of the large gloomy building. The first door opened into the hallway, and although it was dim, he thought he caught a glimpse of a figure at the end of it, disappearing into the room where the girls were being held. He frowned, and started forward, and as he passed the restroom, a quick side glance brought him up short. The faint light illuminated the figure on the floor – it was Paully, and he wasn't moving – and without stopping to check to see if he was dead or alive, Dominic plunged down the hallway, swearing. If the bitches got away, prison would be the least of his worries; his life would be forfeit if he failed Tuttle. Fear morphed into anger, and then rage, as he swung into the room.

The two women were there – Brooks was squatting behind the Ramanujan woman, trying to unlock her cuffs, and they both looked up like frightened deer. Brooks didn't look scared for long, however; she leapt to her feet and came right at him, clawing at his face with the keys like a wild thing. He batted her aside with a powerful swing of his arm, and she flew against the paneling with enough force to rattle the prefab walls. She crumpled next to it, dazed, and he was on her in a flash, anger transforming into a sudden hot surge of desire. She put up an arm to fend him off, but he backhanded her in the face, and her head jerked and drooped. Her arm was still up, but now waving only feebly, her eyes unfocused. He could hear the Ramanujan bitch screaming at him to stop, but her cries just fed his lust. She could watch him do Brooks – so much the better. Maybe the experience would make her a little more cooperative, when it was her turn.

He grabbed Brooks' shirt front and ripped it apart, buttons scattering, then reached for his belt and loosened it, when a cold voice came from behind him. "Stop it. Get up, you asshole."

Still kneeling over her, he twisted to see Spike Johnson staring at him with ice in his eyes, holding a nine millimeter level with his head.

**...**

Eric Tramden spoke into the receiver of the prepaid phone he used to contact Tuttle, and kept his voice level, although he didn't need to keep it down; it was only seven a.m. and he was still at his apartment. There was no one there to hear the conversation; his wife had left him months before. He glanced down at the picture of his children, and his jaw worked. The bitch had gotten custody of his kids…

He broke off his thoughts and continued the conversation. "So you say you're expecting another drop today? What time?"

Tuttle's voice sounded just a bit thin, querulous and tired, but there was a note of triumph in it. It grated on Tramden's nerves. _"__I __just__ got __off__ the __phone __with__ Spike__ — he talked to Eppes earlier. __The file __will__ be__ there__ late__ this __afternoon. __Should __be __about__ the__ same __time __as__ yesterday.__ You __follow __the__ same__ drill.__ Send__ your __girl__ – __what__'__s __her__ name?__"_

"Tracy."

"_Send Tracy to the FBI office and have her pick up the official file, and bring it to you. You'll pick up the copy that Don Eppes leaves in Brooks' office and compare the two. If they differ in any way, I need to know. If you are satisfied they are the same, and that anything that incriminates me has been neutralized, have your girl return the original back to the FBI office, and save the copy for me. Same as yesterday, but there is an additional assignment."_

Tramden's jaw worked again. "What is that?"

"_I want you to use your clearance to access the electronic files at the Bureau, and make sure they have also been purged of anything incriminating regarding me. Don Eppes will deliver the last paper copies today, as we already discussed. I also need to be sure the electronic files are clear, and then we can bring this to a close."_

"And what is 'this,' exactly?" Tramden couldn't keep the faint note of anger from his voice. Tuttle was pulling him into 'this' and Tramden had a good idea he knew what it was – he was certain that Tuttle had Robin Brooks, and he was using her to blackmail Don Eppes into altering the case files. What he didn't know was how Tuttle planned to keep them altered. Whether he killed Brooks or released her, the result would be the same – Don Eppes would go back in and restore the files, plus come after Tuttle on kidnapping and/or murder charges, so they were doing this for – for what? None of it made any sense – but all of it was illegal, and he was now part of it.

Tuttle's voice was irritatingly smug. _"__Don__'__t__ you __worry__ about__ that.__ The__ less__ you __know;__ the__ better__ for__ you.__ Now,__ are__ we__ clear?__"_

"We're clear." The line disconnected. Crystal clear, Tramden thought morosely. It was absolutely clear; he was most decidedly a felon.

**...**

It seemed an eternity, but it was really only about forty minutes.

Sam Jarrett sat stewing in his rental car in the parking lot behind Roscoe's diner, watching Spike Johnson's car and waiting for the man to reappear. He was wondering again to himself if the man was meeting contacts inside, and was just about to go in and take a look, when Johnson pushed through the rear door and pulled out his cell phone. Johnson paced the lot with the phone against his ear, and he looked agitated. As he began to speak to whoever was on the other end, he glanced around the lot. Sam instinctively slunk lower in his seat, but Johnson's gaze swept past him, scanning the lot for any pedestrians who might possibly be able to hear the conversation. Seeing none, he kept talking. He looked angry, upset – and, after he listened silently for a while to whoever was talking on the other end – scared. He kept nodding, and Sam could read his lips, at least for that bit – _'__Yes,__ sir. __Yes,__ sir.__'_

Sam had a hunch that he was talking to Tuttle, and that something had gone wrong – but what? Johnson had gone into a diner – probably for breakfast – and come out again afterward upset. What had happened? Had he gotten a phone call? The whole thing was an enigma – as clear as mud.

**...**

Spike Johnson snapped his cell phone shut with a hand that shook slightly from fear and anger, strode toward his car, and got in behind the wheel. He sat for a moment before he started the vehicle, then turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the lot, his mind still back on the scene at the warehouse. He'd walked in on what was nearly a disaster – Paully stunned, just coming to in the restroom, and down the hall, the Ramanujan woman screaming and crying, imploring for Dominic to 'stop.' Spike had rushed in to find Dominic intent on raping a half-conscious Robin Brooks, and far from rational. For a moment, he'd had to hold his gun on the man, until the crazed light died in his eyes and he seemed to come out the haze of lust and rage that possessed him. Dominic was definitely a loose cannon, and not the ideal cohort for what they were trying to pull off. Beggars couldn't be choosers, however, and they were into this too deep already, so Spike had no choice but to leave Dominic and Paully in charge again. And leave them he did, after he made it clear that Dominic had better get control of himself, or he'd be looking down the end of Spike's nine millimeter again, and watching a bullet come out of the end of it, heading for his skull.

That seemed to hit home, and Dominic had nodded, and at Spike's command had hustled down the hall to help Paully make his way, hobbling and holding his head, back into the room. Spike, meanwhile, half-walked, half-dragged a stumbling Robin Brooks back over to where the Ramanujan woman sat, tears still streaming down her face, and cuffed Brooks to the pipe again. Brooks sagged onto her side, and the other woman leaned over her protectively, whispering something – words of encouragement and sympathy. It was enough to make Spike feel bad. Almost.

He did feel bad – bad for himself – as he walked out of the room after briefing the men on the plans for the evening, with Dominic and a rather green-faced Paully now back in charge, and the women secured. He knew he would feel even worse when he had to make his report to Tuttle – and when he made the phone call outside the diner, it had gone about as he had figured. Tuttle was furious, and blamed Spike for hiring the two morons. His last words echoed in Spike's head.

'_If__ we __didn__'__t __need __those__ two__ assholes,__ I__'__d__ tell__ you to __go__ back __and__ put __bullets __in__t heir__ heads.__ This__ end s__tonight__ – __I__ can__'__t __afford __to__ wait __any __longer.__ I__ want__ you __to__ come__ directly __here__ – __we __need __to __lay __the __final __plans__ for __this__ evening.__ You__'__d __better__ get__ your__ shit__ together,__ Johnson, __if__ you__ want__ to__ stay __in __this __organization__…" _

Spike could read the unspoken threat in the last sentence. Once you were in Tuttle's organization, at least in as deep as he was, there was only one way out, and it wasn't good. You either stayed in, or you were dead – those were your choices. That was as clear as if Tuttle had spelled it out – crystal clear.

**...**

Don spoke quietly into his cell phone, and cast a worried glance at his brother, who was bent over his laptop. Charlie was out of it – even alternating doses of acetaminophen and ibuprofen weren't enough to keep his fever down, and he had a nasty rattling cough, and seemed short of breath. Even more worrisome, in spite of his illness, he was insisting on trying to refine his search program for the girls, and Don still needed him to finish fixing the electronic files – and if they hadn't been up against a deadline, Charlie shouldn't have been working on either of them. He needed a hospital bed, but he couldn't afford to go, just yet.

Don yanked his attention back to his conversation with Wright. "What – what did you just say? Eric Tramden is in on this? How do you know?" Wright's next admission drew a gasp, and a "You did what!" That was enough to make Charlie turn in his chair to look, and Don waved at him to reassure him and lowered his voice. "You took a big chance with that," he murmured into the phone, and although his tone was softer, his voice was anything but pleasant.

"_Trust__ me,__"_ Wright answered, "_Nobody __picked__ up__ on__ our__ guy __installing __the__ cameras,__ not__ even__ you.__ You__ walked__ right__ past__ him__ in __the__ hallway.__ We__ put__ a__ tail__ on__ Tramden,__ but__ no__ dice__ so __far.__ He__'__s __only__ traveled__ back__ and __forth__ to__ the__ office__ from__ his__ apartment,__ nowhere__ else.__ We __also __managed__ to__ get__ taps __on __his__ office __and __home __phones,__ and __we__ keep __checking__ his__ cell__ phone __records__ – __but __nothing __there__ either._"

"Tramden." Don shook his head. Did Tuttle have everyone at the DOJ in his pocket? "He's probably communicating on a burner," he muttered, using the street name for a prepaid cell phone. He shot another glance at Charlie.

"_That's exactly what we think. What about you? Anything on your end?"_

"Not a lot," said Don. "Sam Jarrett followed Spike Johnson to a diner in East L.A. – twice now. Johnson went in both times, and came out a while later. The second time was early this morning, and Sam said Johnson seemed upset. He has a hunch that Johnson may be meeting with someone inside. Sam said if Johnson goes there again, the next time he's going inside, too. It's risky, but he's gotta try to get a look at who he's meeting with." Don hoped to God that Spike went back soon; they were running out of time. Tuttle had called him that morning, and had demanded that the last of the file changes be made that day. "Charlie's working on refining his search, based on the diner location." Don wasn't so sure about that theory, himself; if Spike was meeting with someone at the diner, why would they do it anywhere near the girls' location? It didn't make sense…

"_Okay_," said Wright. "_We__'__re__ coming__ down __to__ the __wire__ here.__ We __need __to__ stay__ in __touch_."

"We're going to finish up the files today. Charlie will do the rest of changes to the electronic files, and I'm working on the paper copies. Charlie and I will do the drops this afternoon, same as yesterday. I'll drop the copies off at Robin's office, and Charlie will bring the fake 'originals' into the FBI offices this afternoon."

"_And__ I__'__m__ sure__ Tramden__'__s __girl,__ Tracy, __will __be __there __to__ pick__ them__ up,__" _Wright said drily. '_David __spotted__ her__ yesterday. __She__ came__ in__ and__ was __chatting__ with__ one__ of__ the__ junior__ agents,__but__ as__ soon__ as __Charlie __left,__ she__ was__ over__ in__ the __file__ area.__ Checked__ the __file__ out__ with __the__ clerk,__ the__ way__ she__ was __supposed__to__ – __and__ a__ couple__ of__ hours __later,__ right __at__ the__ end __of t__he __afternoon,__ she__ was__ back,__ and __replaced__ the __file.__"_

"They're checking it against the copy I leave them, to make sure we really alter the original – I figured they'd do that," said Don.

"_We __doubt __that __she__ knows__ why__ she__'__s __picking __it__ up__ – __but__ we__ put__ a __tail __on__ her __too,__ just __in__ case.__"_ Wright paused, and his voice turned more serious._ "__Don,__ when__ you__ finish__ with__ those__ files,__ you__'__ll __probably __get__ a__ call.__ This __is __going__ to __get__ really __dicey,__ because __we__ don__'__t__ have__ a__ line__ on __the__ girls__ yet. __I __know__ you__'__ll__ want__ to __stay__ low-profile,__ but__ if__ Tuttle__ asks__ you__ to__ meet,__ you__'__ve __got __to __call __us __in__ – __you __can__'__t __go __it __alone.__ We__'__ll __be__ standing__ by,__ and__ I__'__m__ going__ to__ have __Liz __and__ Nikki__ at__ the __ready,__too__ – __don__'__t__ worry,__ I__ won__'__t __tell __them__ what __is __going__ on__ until__ I__ have __to__ – __just__ that__ there __might __be__ something __going__ down__ tonight__ and__ I __need__ them__ available.__"_

"I hear you," said Don quietly, hoping the phrase sounded like agreement. If it came down to a request to meet, he was going to make up his own mind on whether or not to call anyone else in – it would depend on the conditions that Tuttle set, the place he chose to meet, and how much risk Don thought they would be incurring if he came in with backup.

"_Okay,__then,__" _said Wright, apparently taking Don's comment as acceptance of his request to call them in. Don breathed a quiet sigh of relief – he really didn't want to disobey a direct order if he didn't have to and more to the point, he didn't want to arouse Wright's suspicions, and have the man put a tail on him for his own protection. _"__Let__'__s__ keep__ each__ other__ posted,__ shall __we?__"_

Don agreed, and ended the call. He stared speculatively at the phone for a moment, and then drifted over to where Charlie sat at his laptop. Don's work with the paper files was done; he was just waiting for Charlie to finish up with the electronic versions. Of course, they were all electronic these days, but Charlie was working on those that were stored only as bits and bytes – those that had not made it to hard copy, and probably wouldn't – at least not until an arrest was made and charges were filed.

Charlie jabbed a finger at the screen, and spoke in a raspy voice. "There. We should check out those two buildings."

Don peered at the screen; Charlie had an aerial view displayed of the neighborhood around the diner, where Sam Jarrett had seen Spike Johnson twice now.

Charlie continued, and Don could hear the urgency in his voice, even though it was low and strained. "That building is an abandoned warehouse, according to the county auditor's records, closed since 1998, and that one, a block over, is an empty distribution center." He looked up, and Don's lips tightened. Charlie was an apparition; pale, eyes so bright with fever and so filled with panic that he looked deranged, his curly hair wild and disheveled. He spoke pleadingly. "We need to get someone to check them out before we drop the last files."

Don hesitated, and studied the two buildings on the screen, noting entrances and exits and surrounding routes that might provide cover if one approached them. "I don't know," he said finally. "We need to be careful, Charlie. We can't tip them off that anyone else is in on this, at least not yet. And I have to say, it's doubtful that the girls are there. The diner is only a block or so away. Why would they draw attention to the area by having Spike Johnson show up there, if the girls were anywhere nearby?"

Charlie's shoulders slumped, and he stared despondently at the screen. "You're right, it's not logical," he said sadly. "It fits all the parameters – the distance from the airport, the type of building, the age of the building… but then, so do many others, in other areas. It's all I have, though." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "I've failed them."

"No, no, Charlie," Don murmured soothingly. He put a hand on Charlie's shoulder and could feel the heat radiating from his body. Charlie shuddered at the touch – fever, _and_ chills, thought Don. "And the last time I checked, I was working this case too – and so are Colby, David and Wright – this isn't all on you." He paused; then continued, gently. "Charlie, you need to finish up the electronic files. We're running out of time. I did what I could see on the Bureau site, but some of those files were password-protected. I think they're yours."

Charlie nodded, his body radiating defeat along with the heat. "Yeah, they're mine. I'll do them next." He looked up. "And when we make the drops this afternoon, that's it, then. They'll have what they want, and we still won't have Robin and Amita. What happens then?"

Don's lips tightened. "I don't know, Chuck. I don't know."

**...**

Phillip Wright disconnected the call with Don Eppes, and looked across the conference room table at David Sinclair and Colby Granger. "What do you think?"

"He's not gonna call us," said Colby, flatly.

David nodded. "You heard him. '_I__ hear __you?_' How's that for noncommittal?" He tapped the table with a forefinger, speculatively. "I won't say that he definitely won't call – I think he just wants to keep his options open."

Wright shook his head. "Opting not to call us in is not acceptable. He'll be putting himself, his brother and the captives in jeopardy."

Colby made a face. "Calling us in could put them in jeopardy, too."

Wright gave him a curt nod. "That may be, but if Eppes has options, I want them, too. If he – or Charlie – contact any one of you and tells you that something is going down, I need to know – especially if Tuttle tells them he wants to meet. Let Sam Jarrett know, too. We need to stick together on this – and we can't let them go in alone, no matter what they think. Is that clear?"

Colby and David looked at each other, then back at Wright, and nodded. "Yeah," said Colby. "Crystal clear."

**...**

End, Chapter 19


	20. Take the Long Way Home

**Perception Deception Part 3 –Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 20: Take the Long Way Home**

Alan Eppes sank into the airplane seat with a sigh of relief, and covered his mouth to stifle a cough. He was still weak and shaky, and really wasn't looking forward to the long flight back to L.A., but it would be good to be home, where he could finish recuperating in his own bed. He really hadn't ended up being much help to his brother, although he had set up a private nurse to care for him until Murray's daughter Rebecca could make it home from China. Thankfully, the mission had found a way to move up her leave. She was already en route, although it would take her two days to get home. In the meantime, the home nursing care that Alan had set up for his brother when he was released would suffice. In the end, he hadn't even seen Murray — the doctors had advised him to stay away from him. Murray was at risk for pneumonia even without flu to contend with. So, Alan had made the arrangements from his own hospital bed and had informed Murray by calling his hospital room on the floor above his − now wasn't that ridiculous? − so that his brother understood the arrangements. Shortly after that, Alan was released himself, and he booked a return flight home, an afternoon flight. He would be home by dinnertime. He sighed, leaned against the side of the aircraft, closed his eyes, and was out cold before the wheels left the runway.

**…..**

Charlie leaned against the side of the elevator, and closed his eyes. After a few more hours of work, he had completed the revisions to the electronic files. It was done.

He still wasn't quite sure how he had made it to the FBI offices; the trip there in the Prius seemed like a blur. Don had taken off at the same time for the DOJ, to drop off the file copy in Robin's office. Charlie was dropping off the supposed 'original' at the FBI offices, just as he had yesterday − but today was different. Today was it − they were done with the files, and they hadn't found the girls. There would be no more waiting, no more stalling, and the advantage was all Tuttle's. Even if they got a team together to check out the suspect buildings, that would be tough to accomplish before Tuttle made a move − and such an action could be disastrous. They really had no choice but to wait for Tuttle's call, to see what kind of arrangements he would make for releasing the girls. Then they would need to pull together some kind of plan.

The bell chimed softly, signaling he was at his floor, and Charlie rubbed his face and opened his eyes, and then pushed himself upright, away from the side of the elevator. His head spun badly for a moment, and he had to put out a hand and touch the wall to steady himself as he disembarked. Weaving a little, trying not to breathe too heavily − he seemed to have a hard time getting air − he made his way straight for the file area, showing his file to the clerk, who waved a wand over the bar code on the label to check it back in. "I can put it back," Charlie offered. His voice was so hoarse from coughing the clerk had to pause for a moment to make out what he'd said, but the words registered, and so did his appearance, apparently. A look of sympathy crossed her face.

"That's okay," she said. "I'll do it."

Charlie fidgeted a little. He couldn't consider this done until the file was properly stored − what if it got lost in a pile of other documents that needed to be filed? He knew that someone from the DOJ would probably be in right on his heels, looking for the file, and they didn't need any glitches. "I think some people are waiting for that," he said.

Her look of sympathy deepened. He knew she was thinking he was under some kind of deadline, and had worked on the file from his sickbed. If only she knew what that deadline was…

"Of course, Dr. Eppes," she said, "I'll file it right away." True to her word, she headed right for the file section with it, and Charlie watched her go. She placed it in the proper drawer, and it shut with a metal clang. The sound had a ring of finality to it; like the closing of a dungeon door. Charlie felt suddenly lightheaded, as if he was floating.

He was about to pass out, he was sure; he had to get out of there without making a scene. He tottered back toward the elevator, toward the little conference room where he'd met with Don to tell him about the kidnapping. It was quiet, and private. If he could just get in there, and sit and rest for a bit…

**…..**

Don Eppes' cell phone rang, and he picked it up without taking his eyes off of traffic.

"_Hey, Don," _came David Sinclair's voice, _"just thought I'd let you know that Charlie made it __here with the file, and it's in place. He's feeling a little woozy, and he's chilling in the conference room for a bit before he heads back. Frankly, he looks like hell. Colby and I aren't so sure he should be driving, but he's insisting on going by himself_ − _he says he doesn't want to take the risk of any of Tuttle's people seeing an agent at his house, not at this stage of the gam__e."_

Don hesitated. Charlie was right; the last thing they needed right now was for Tuttle to get suspicious that they were working with anyone − although they didn't need Charlie passing out behind the wheel of his car, either. A stab of guilt speared him. He was pushing Charlie too hard – he should be in the hospital. Of course, even if he'd suggested that, he knew that Charlie would have refused. "Maybe he should take a cab," he said.

"_We'll see how he does. Colby's feeding him some hot tea_ − _and he did get here okay on his own. I just didn't want you to worry if he got back a little later than planned. Don't worry; if we don't think he's okay to drive, we'll talk him into a cab. Did you make your drop?"_

"Yeah. It was uneventful. I'm heading back to the Craftsman now."

David's voice dropped. _"There's our girl_ − _Tracy from the DOJ_ − _right on schedule, to pick up Charlie's file. Wright's watching the monitor over at the DOJ to see who comes to get your file_ − _it'll probably be the same__ person picking it up as yesterday."_

Don knew he meant Eric Tramden. The truth was, when he'd walked into the DOJ today, he'd had a hard time not glancing in the direction of Tramden's office. Hell, he'd had a hard time not barging down the hall and through the door, and tackling the man and beating the crap out of him until he talked, for that matter. If he knew for sure that Tramden knew where the girls were, he might have done just that. But he didn't know, and he couldn't afford for Tuttle to know he was onto Tramden. _"Yeah, I would think so."_

"_Okay." _It was David's turn to hesitate. _"Let us know if you hear anything," _was all he finally said, but Don knew what he'd wanted to say. It was the same thing he would have said, had the situation been reversed. _Don't do anything stupid, don't be a cowboy, don't go it alone…_

"Yeah," he said, "okay." Again, not quite committing, not quite promising. Just an acknowledgment of the request. "Talk to you later."

He disconnected the call before David could press the issue.

**…..**

Alan Eppes stepped wearily off the plane in L.A., and took a deep breath as he came off the ramp into the concourse. The nap on the plane must have done him good; he felt a little more energetic, and the breath was the deepest he'd been able to draw in three days. He paused before walking to the baggage claim, and dialed his cell phone − first Charlie, then Don, without getting a response from either of them. He sighed and shook his head. He'd been hoping for a lift home − although in truth, he'd get there faster by taking a cab − he wouldn't have to wait for one of his sons to get down to the airport. It was dinnertime – about a quarter after six – although it wasn't unheard of for either of his sons to be working that time of night. He wondered vaguely what they were doing, as he trudged toward the baggage claim.

**…..**

Amita ran a tongue over her lower lip, and glanced at Robin.

Amita's lips were dry; her eyes were dry − her tears had disappeared; driven away by a hard, hot anger that she hadn't known she was capable of feeling. There was no doubt in her mind, now; if she had a gun, she'd shoot both Dominic and Paully without hesitation. She'd already loathed them, but Dominic had crossed the final line when he'd beaten and tried to rape Robin. She now hated them, with as much vitriol as any human could muster. She couldn't possibly hate them any more than she did.

She glanced again at Robin; the other woman seemed to have rebounded at least slightly from the attack. She had pulled herself to a sitting position, and hunched her shoulders to allow the edges of her blouse to overlap and cover her exposed bra. Amita suspected that she had a mild concussion; Robin's cheekbone was bruised and her eye was nearly swollen shut, and she leaned heavily against Amita's shoulder.

Paully's cell phone rang, and he fished it out of his pocket and put it to his ear. He wasn't looking so hot himself; apparently Robin had landed a couple of good hard kicks when she'd tried to escape. Paully listened for a moment and then said, "Yeah, okay," and hit the speaker button, then held the phone toward Dominic so he could hear. That was unnecessary; the sound was clear in the small room.

Amita had expected to hear Spike Johnson, but instead it was Tuttle's voice that emanated from the phone. _"Listen carefully. It's going down, just as we discussed. The files have been completed. I will shortly call Don Eppes, and have him officially close the case. Then I will instruct him and his brother to come to the warehouse. Spike will be there before __the Eppes brothers arrive, and__ so will I. I am going to personally supervise this — there can be no screw-ups. We will proceed as we discussed previously. Remember, no one leaves the warehouse alive."_

Amita had been listening intently, trying to determine how Tuttle was going to carry out their release, but at his last words, her heart contracted. She might have gasped; she wasn't sure — the room seemed to tilt crazily for a moment. Tuttle never intended to release them; he planned to kill not only her and Robin, but Don and Charlie as well. She'd been wrong; she'd been so wrong.

It _was_ possible to hate them more.

She could feel Robin shudder against her, but Amita didn't cry out, didn't give any sign of the terror and heartbreak inside of her. Instead, she locked her eyes on Dominic and Paully, and from the depths of her soul, glared at them and pulled up a wordless curse − something blacker than she'd ever imagined she was able to muster. She wasn't sure, but it looked as though they both flinched a little.

Her ancestors came from an ancient place; India had been home to many religions, some of them dark. She had no real knowledge of any of the earlier beliefs, but somehow she felt those old superstitions of her ancestral land gave life and power to her curse. Hopefully, it would follow Dominic and Paully, and Spike Johnson, and especially J. Everett Tuttle, to their graves.

Oh, yes, they had never felt hatred like this before.

**…..**

Don paced the living room of the Craftsman, and glanced at his watch. It had been nearly an hour since he'd talked to David, and the girl, Tracy, had come to pick up the file. It only took a few minutes to get to the DOJ offices from the FBI building − Tramden would have had at least a half hour with the file by now, probably more. He should be finished comparing them. His father had called several minutes earlier, but Don didn't dare call him back – he had to keep his line free. Tuttle had to call soon…

The Craftsman phone rang, and Don nearly jumped out of his skin. He'd been expecting the call to come in on his cell phone, and he whirled and dashed over to the dining room table, taking care to make sure the trace and the recording apparatus was on before he picked up the receiver. "Don Eppes."

"_Agent Eppes_," purred J. Everett Tuttle, "_you and your brother did a very nice job on those files. I have to commend you._"

The readout on the number came back as 'unknown,' as Don knew it would. Tuttle wouldn't be so stupid as to call from anything other than an untraceable pre-paid cell phone. Now, if only he would stay on the line long enough for a cell phone tower triangulation, and a location…

"_I have one more task for you, and then you can come for your lovely ladies. I need you to send an email to Eric Tramden at the DOJ and copy Phillip Wright, telling them that you are officially closing the case files concerning me, due to lack of evidence."_

"That's not a problem," said Don. Actually it was − oh, it was easy enough to carry out, but he had a problem with it. A big one.

Tuttle went on, as if expecting that response. _"Then I need you and your brother to come directly to an address that I will give you."  
><em>  
>"Charlie won't be coming," said Don flatly. One thing he knew for certain, and that was that he would not involve Charlie in any more of this. "He's resting at the FBI offices − he couldn't even make the drive home. He's very ill − in fact, I'm going to tell one of my agents to take him to a hospital."<p>

Tuttle's purr turned snappish. _"That is not an option. Your brother comes with you, or the deal is off. The two of you will come alone _−_ if we see anyone else in the area, we will abort the handoff. You will show up at this address promptly at 7:00 p.m." _He rattled off the address, and Don's gut lurched, even as he jotted it down. Before he could respond, the line went dead. He quickly checked the trace − no luck. He rewound the recording and played it back, double-checking the address that Tuttle had given him. His own voice floated out at him from the recording device; it sounded tight, strained.

Charlie's laptop still sat open, although the screen was dark. Don hit the 'enter' button, and color immediately flooded the screen. It was still on. Charlie had left in such a hurry − or was so fuzzy-headed from being sick, that he hadn't logged off. The Bureau screen was still up, but it had automatically timed out, and was asking for a password. Don ignored it, looking instead at the bottom of the screen to see if any other windows were open. There. He clicked on one of them, and the aerial view of the warehouse district came up. Don peered at the addresses of the two buildings on the screen, and then down at the address he'd written. Sure enough, the one Charlie had indicated as an abandoned warehouse had the same address as his slip of paper.

"Damn it!" Don slammed his hand on the table, and the laptop vibrated. Charlie had been right. Don had second-guessed him, and now it was too late to act − at least to be proactive. Granted, Charlie had come up with those locations only a few hours ago, but if they'd scrambled, they could have gone in with surprise on their side… Instead, they were going to have to play defense, to deal with what Tuttle dealt them. To be truthful, Don had underestimated Tuttle – he had never expected him to set up a meeting within an hour of turning over the last file. He thought they would have had more time to plan. Worse yet, Don now knew what he'd feared from the beginning − that Tuttle had no intention of handing the girls over to them. The fact that he was insisting that Charlie be there had revealed his hand. There was only one explanation for that request − Tuttle intended to kill all of them.

Don sat down, and ran a weary hand over his face. Tuttle had them in a corner; there was no doubt. He didn't dare call in Wright, David and Colby − and he didn't dare drag Charlie with him. Not again, and especially knowing that this time, he could be dragging him to his death. But he didn't dare show up without him, either, in case Tuttle was watching their approach.

He sat for just a moment, then, as Tuttle requested, logged into the FBI website, and formulated the email stating that he was closing the case, and addressed it to Eric Tramden and Phillip Wright. He paused before mailing it, his finger wavering over the key, then firmly hit enter, sending it off over the Ethernet. Then he sent another email to Wright, and only Wright, stating that the previous email had been sent under duress, and that the case should remain open. Wright knew better, of course, but the second email might help in court, if it turned out that Don wasn't able to testify.

If Charlie had been going with him, he would have taken more time to document what they had been forced to do, but Don figured that if Tuttle managed to kill him, Charlie would make sure that the truth came out. Because, in spite of Tuttle's demand, Charlie was most definitely not coming. He was in no condition to be of any help, and even if he were, Don refused to put his life in jeopardy yet again. There was one person he would ask for help, and if that person refused, well, Don was just going to have go it alone − he would come in hard and fast and well-armed, and hope he could take them off guard.

He pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket, and dialed, and when his call was answered, said, "Sam."

"_Yeah — Don, I was just going to call you." _Sam Jarrett's hearty voice sounded in his ear. _"I'm back outside the diner – Spike Johnson just drove back down here. He stopped at Tuttle's earlier, then left, alone, and came back here."_

'_Good_,' thought Don. _'At least Sam's at the right location_.' "That's good, Sam, because I've got a job for you if you want it. Hear me out first, before you say anything. Tuttle just called – he wants me and Charlie to meet him at a warehouse in the vicinity of the diner. He says he's going to release Robin and Amita to us, but when I tried to tell him Charlie wasn't coming, he got insistent."

"_That's not good," _Sam said slowly, and Don knew he'd come to the same conclusion − that Tuttle was planning to clean up all of his loose ends.

"Yeah. So, I can't bring Charlie, for obvious reasons, plus he's sicker than a dog − he's still at the Bureau, resting before he tries to drive home. If I have to, I'll go in alone, but if they're watching for us, I'll get closer if I have someone with me — someone they might mistake for Charlie, at least for a bit."

"_You got it," _Sam said immediately.

"It'll be dangerous, Sam − although you don't have to go all the way in − just get me close enough to give me a shot at getting to Robin and Amita before they can react."

"_I'm not worried about it," _Sam said firmly_. "I'm with you_− _I'll back you up all the way. I just don't know how close I can get before they figure out it's not Charlie."_

It was true; Sam Jarrett didn't look much like Charlie. Thankfully, he wasn't a tall man — he was an inch or so taller than Charlie, but he was still a couple of inches shorter than Don. That part was okay. He was quite a bit heavier than Charlie, however, and his features looked nothing like Charlie, either. Don had an oversized hooded sweatshirt upstairs in his old room − a gift from Charlie − that said 'CalSci' on the front. If Sam wore that, put the hood up to cover his head, and a ball cap on underneath the hood to cover his face, he might look like a sick Charlie, bundled up in extra clothes… it wouldn't be great, but they only had a half hour, and it would take Don twenty minutes to get to the area.

"I'll bring a sweatshirt and a ball cap for you to put on − it'll be dark by then − hopefully it will get us close enough. Look, I gotta get going. I'll meet you in the parking lot of that diner in about twenty minutes − we'll go in from there on foot."

"_You got it," _said Sam, and he disconnected_. _

Don didn't even have time to stand, when the phone buzzed again. He glanced at the number. Phillip Wright. No doubt, Wright had guessed from Don's email that it was going down, and was frantically trying to get hold of Don, to offer backup. Don shut the phone off, and stuck it in his pocket. With it off, it would take longer for them to use it to find his location – it would be long enough, he thought, for him to get down to the warehouse and get in place. Just a moment later, he was out the front door, carrying a sweatshirt and a ball cap, his hand subconsciously touching the Glock in his jacket pocket, and a moment after that, he was in his SUV, headed for the diner.

**…..**

Charlie pulled wearily into the driveway of his Craftsman home, and staggered a bit as he disembarked from the Prius. If he'd been a little more alert, he might have noticed that the SUV was gone from its place at the curb, but in the falling darkness and the haze that seemed to occupy his vision, he didn't. It wasn't until he got inside, wheezing, and the silence hit him; that he thought to look out the window at the curb. He knew immediately that Don was gone, but he called out anyway, "Don?" and then, as he began to realize that something might have happened while he was gone, called out again, more frantically, "Don?"

He charged over to where his laptop sat on the table, searching for a note, for anything that might tell him where his brother had gone. If Don had gone into this without him…

His cell phone buzzed, and he fumbled for it in his pocket, nearly dropping it in his haste. "Don?" he rasped into the phone as he answered it, not bothering to look at the caller.

"_Charlie, it's me." _Colby's voice came over the line, filled with urgency_. "Charlie, are you at the Craftsman? Don isn't there?"_

"No!" Charlie nearly shouted back. "Why? What's going on?"

"_While you were on your way back, an email came to Wright from Don, telling him that Don was closing the case. We don't think Don would have sent that, unless Tuttle told him to. We think it's going down_**,**_ but we need to know where Don went."_

"I − I don't know!" stammered Charlie, plowing frantically through the papers on the table, his heart hammering. God, he couldn't breathe. "He was already gone when I got here! Colby, we've got to find him!"

"_Look, Charlie, just calm down _−_ we'll find him, okay? Just stay put there _−_ David and I are gonna head over there, just as a precaution. Don't worry _−_ we'll be discreet _−_ we'll park a couple of blocks over and come in through the back yard. Don't go anywhere, okay? Charlie?"_

"Okay, okay, I heard you!" Charlie shot back impatiently. "Hurry!" The call disconnected, but it took several seconds for Charlie to realize that he still had the phone to his ear; he was so immersed in fishing through the papers. "Stop," he commanded himself, in a hoarse whisper, as he laid the cell phone on the table. "Stop. Think. Where would he have gone?"

He stood there for a moment in complete silence, and it was then, in the stillness, that he saw it − an orange blinking light on the recording equipment attached to the phone. He lurched across the tabletop and jabbed at the button with his forefinger, and heard his brother's recorded voice.

"_Don Eppes."_

Charlie held his breath − as best he could, he was panting, struggling to get enough air − and listened to the exchange. When he heard Tuttle give the address, he knew exactly where it was, and he glanced down at his watch. Six forty-two. Don was long gone − already there, he was sure, and even if Charlie left now, he would arrive minutes behind him, if Don was meeting them at 7:00. He wavered for a moment, thinking of Colby's instructions to wait, but he knew he couldn't. Tuttle's instructions on the recording were clear – he'd demanded that both he Don show up at the warehouse at seven - alone. He didn't wait any longer − he ran for his Prius, on legs that felt like rubber. He nearly collapsed on the car door, gasping like a man who had just run a mile full tilt, then wrenched it open and flung himself inside. Moments later, he was on the 10, headed for East L.A.

**…****..**

End, Chapter 20


	21. Down The Rabbit Hole

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 21: Down the Rabbit Hole**

**…..**

Sam Jarrett disconnected his call with Don Eppes, and frowned at the door of the diner, watching it drift close. Spike Johnson had just strode inside, and Sam wondered if he were meeting others there, planning for the arrival of the Eppes brothers. If he went inside, he might be able to see how many of them there were…

He shifted in the driver's seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in the gathering gloom. The risk if they spotted him would be minimal, he decided. They didn't know who he was, and the next time they saw him, he would be wearing a sweatshirt and a ball cap, and it would be dark. It was time he got a look at who they were dealing with.

He slid out from behind the wheel and crossed the parking lot, treading with firm steps toward the door on the back entrance. Just an average Joe, looking for a quick cheap meal. He pulled the door open, and stepped inside.

He was instantly assailed by the smell of hot grease, coffee, and barbecue sauce. There was only one woman in the place, and she was behind the cash register. Groups of men, most of them black or Latino, huddled over Formica tables and plates of beans and ribs. Sam's gaze swept the place, and he frowned. No Spike Johnson. Where had he gone?

He stepped forward, and noticed a glass door in the wall to his right, a connecting entrance to a shop next door. A plainly lettered sign above the door read 'Leon's Liquors,' and as Sam peered through it he caught just a glimpse of someone moving, vanishing around the end of an aisle. Sam wasted no time heading that direction; he went through the door into the liquor store, and came around the end of an aisle holding bottles of whiskey, just in time to see Spike step out of the front door of the store, onto Elondo Avenue, the main street. Through the glass door, Sam could see Spike glance up and down the street, and then turn to his right, and head down the sidewalk.

"Shit," breathed Sam, as he strode after him. The wiry, dour man behind the counter near the front door eyed him, but as he saw that Sam wasn't holding any merchandise, relaxed. Sam shook his head. All these times, Spike hadn't simply been going into the diner - he'd been going _through_ it; and then through the liquor store and out on the other side of the building onto the main street, the side away from the parking lot. It had merely been a ruse, a precaution, to keep from being tracked. A rudimentary one, but it had worked. Sam cursed again, under his breath. If he'd followed Spike in the first time, they could have found out where they were holding the women, in enough time to do something about it.

Twilight was falling; it would be dark soon, but visibility was not a problem, yet. As Sam gained the street, he saw Spike several yards ahead of him, walking quickly. His head was down; after that first look up and down the street, apparently he felt secure. Spike glanced behind him once more as he made the corner of Elondo and Smithfield, but Sam had anticipated that, and he sidestepped into an alley just before Johnson got to the crosswalk and turned to look behind him. When Spike turned back around to cross the street, Sam stepped out of the alley and watched Spike go left across the intersection, then followed, trailing behind him as the man went down the street called Smithfield two blocks, past a road named Murphy Avenue, then turned and headed down another, that one named Carson Street. Both streets flanked a large building, an old warehouse, and Sam didn't dare follow too closely – there were no other people around and there were no sidewalks on Carson Street. It was not a place one would stroll; he would have been noticeable. Instead, he idled on the corner and looked down Carson, watching as Spike approached a black vehicle parked outside a loading dock, about a hundred yards from Sam's corner. It was a distance, but it wasn't too far to make out J. Everett Tuttle as he stepped out of the vehicle. The two men spoke briefly and headed inside the warehouse, and the vehicle pulled away from the dock. Sam immediately put his head down and headed back the way he came.

The car passed him as he was walking back up Smithfield, but the driver didn't seem to pay any attention to him; it was doubtful that the man even knew why his boss was there. Sam was sure that Tuttle intended for the bodies to be disposed of somewhere else, and the murder site never to be found. Even if the driver saw the missing people on the news, he would never connect them to Tuttle's trip to the warehouse - and if the site ever came to light for any reason, well, Tuttle would just have one more loose end to clean up.

The thoughts floated through Sam's head as he made it to the end of the block, and watched the car turn the corner and head back toward the main street, back toward the diner. Sam stood on the corner and watched it go, and then turned to his left, down Murphy Avenue, which ran parallel to Carson Street, where he'd seen Tuttle and Spike. Murphy Avenue ran along the back side of the warehouse. He had a little more reconnoitering to do.

A few moments later, at twelve minutes to seven, Sam was back at the same corner, his head down, hurrying back toward the diner. He'd managed to find a mandoor on back side of the warehouse that had been propped open slightly by a bit of broken concrete – probably to allow access to the inside by the homeless. He'd been able to edge inside, into the dark interior, and had slipped behind some rusting industrial lifts. From there he had caught a glimpse of four men standing together across the large expanse of floor, silhouetted in a lone security light that shone over the entrance on the far side of the building. He could hear murmured conversation, but not what they were saying. Then they had turned and headed into an office complex built in the center of the warehouse – if the girls were indeed here, Sam was sure that was where they were being held.

He glanced at his watch – 6:49. Don would be waiting for him already, at the diner, and he was still two blocks away. His cell phone rang as he strode up the block, and he grabbed it, and expecting Don, answered without looking. Instead David Sinclair's voice came through the receiver, sounding uncharacteristically flustered.

"_Sam – it's David Sinclair. Have you heard from Don Eppes_?"

Sam hesitated for a split second, but managed, "No, have you?"

"_We got an email from him a little while ago – we think it's going down, Sam, and we have to find out where he is. We're afraid he's going into something alone."_

'_Not alone," _thought Sam, but he had to admit, the thought of having some backup made him feel a hell of a lot better about things. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell David to come to the diner with a team, and wait until they called them in, but he knew he couldn't – he had promised Don – and Don was a hell of an agent; he knew what he was doing. He pushed down the uncomfortable thought in the back of his mind, the one that asked if Don Eppes was really thinking straight, since it was his girlfriend inside. "Well, I haven't heard from him," Sam reiterated. "I've been waiting for some new instructions. Is there something you need me to do?"

David's voice was raised; Sam got the impression that he was in a vehicle somewhere, moving fast, and he was speaking over the sound of the engine. In spite of the distortion of his voice, Sam could hear the frustration in it. "_No, just sit tight. We'll call you if we need you."_

"You got it," said Sam. He was crossing Elondo Avenue now, and he could see the front of the liquor store and the front diner entrance up the block. The call disconnected, and Sam put his head down and increased his stride. Don would be waiting for him, right around back.

He made it all the way to the front of the diner before he stopped, pulled out his cell phone, and punched in a text message. He addressed it to David Sinclair, but didn't send it. Instead, he saved it as a draft, and tucked the phone back in his pocket, before jogging around the corner of the diner to the back lot.

**…..**

Don Eppes fought the urge to climb out of his SUV, tapping the wheel impatiently. It was just a few minutes to seven, nearly dark, and Sam was nowhere to be seen. Don had spied a car with rental plates as he entered the lot, and surmised the car was Sam's, but it was empty. He could feel the tension crawling up his insides, and he was just about to step out of the car and head for the warehouse alone, when Sam came hurrying around the corner of the diner, from around the front of the building.

Don waited impatiently as Sam crossed the lot, opened the door and slid in beside him, but said nothing, because Sam looked as though he was about to burst.

"I got a line on them," Sam puffed, still sucking air. "I followed Spike to the warehouse – well behind him; he didn't pick me up, don't worry. I watched from way down the block – saw Tuttle arrive, and they both went inside. I slipped around back, onto a side street called Murphy Avenue – I found us a way in on the back side of the building – and saw them across the warehouse floor. It looks like there are at least four of them. The warehouse is a huge place – it spans the whole block – and it's dark in there. There's a walled-off section in the middle – it looks like a group of offices. They were talking, then they headed inside the offices. If the girls are at that site, that's where they're holding them – in that office complex in the center of the building."

Don let out a breath. "Good work." He reached around behind him, grabbed a bag, and tossed it at Sam. "There's a hooded sweatshirt and ball cap in there." He paused. "Although I'm not sure that it's necessary now – I can just go in the back way. They probably won't be watching that direction – the address is on Carson Street, so that must be on the front side – and that's where they directed me to go. They'll probably be watching the Carson Street side."

Sam nodded slowly. "Yes, that's probably true. Although I can walk down Carson Street – create a diversion. They'll be watching me out the front – maybe even trying to figure out if I'm Charlie or just some random schmuck. If they're occupied, it'll give you a better chance of getting in the back and to those offices unseen." He paused and looked at Don. "They'll be in warehouse, waiting for you – you'll have to get past them. If the shooting starts I can try to come inside, but if they've got the front covered it'll take me several minutes to get around the back to try to get in that way. I think you ought to consider calling in backup."

Don shook his head, lips tight. "Not yet. If you hear shooting, go ahead and call it in – I'm sure Wright and the team will be ready and waiting, after the email I sent. But right now, I can't afford anyone else around – if Tuttle and his men get suspicious and think there are agents outside, they might hole up in those offices with the girls, and we won't be able to get to them. I want to get into the warehouse first and try to get past them. You can walk down Carson Street to create a diversion – that's a good idea. But if shooting starts, I don't want you to come inside – someone will need to stay outside and hook up with Sinclair and the team and give them the lowdown."

Sam nodded again, as he pulled on the sweatshirt. "Okay. It's almost seven – we'd better get going. It's about a five minute walk to get over there."

As soon as he had the sweatshirt and cap on, he and Don got out of the SUV. Sam led the way, hunched over, cap brim down, around the corner of the diner to Elondo Avenue, and headed down the block. Don moved slightly in front of him – to anyone watching, he would appear to be leading the way, with 'Charlie' trailing behind him. So it was that he didn't see Sam, who had dropped a step or two back and reached into his pocket for his cell phone, which he pulled out just enough to see the screen, and quickly hit 'send' before tucking it back in his pocket.

**…..**

David Sinclair and Colby Granger took a quick look around the block; then emerged from David's car, which they had parked in front of a quiet Pasadena home. They trotted up the driveway of the home in the gathering gloom, through the back yard, and through the dense bushes at the back of it that separated the house's back yard from the back yard of the Eppes home, on the opposite block. Concealed by the shrubbery, they stopped and took a quick minute to survey their surroundings. No movement, no noise, except for the ordinary sounds of a quiet neighborhood. The television was on in the house they had just passed; they could see it through a rear window, along with the back side of the owner's head; their approach through his driveway and back yard had obviously gone unnoticed. With a nod from David, they pushed out of the shrubs and headed for the Craftsman.

They knocked quietly on the back door and waited a moment; then Colby frowned, and tried the doorknob. Locked. He looked up at David, concern in his eyes. "We'd better check the front."

They trotted around the front side, glancing up and down the street to make sure they weren't being watched, and came in behind the large planters to the front door, before David realized that the driveway – along with the street in front of the home – was empty, save for Alan's car, and they knew he was gone, visiting his ill brother. "Shit," he muttered, "Charlie's car is gone."

Colby shot him a look of consternation as he quietly tried the front door. It was unlocked, and they ducked inside and closed it quickly behind them. The light in the dining room was on, but otherwise the house was dark and quiet. They gave the place a thorough once-over – guns extended – until they were sure it was empty. Only then did they raise their voices.

"Damn it," exploded Colby, "we told Charlie to wait here!" David's only response was to shake his head, his lips tight, and Colby looked at him. "You think he left under his own power?"

"His car was gone, and I don't see signs of a struggle," said David slowly, "so yeah, I would think so. I'll bet he figured out where Don was." His gaze strayed to the dining room table, and he frowned. "He left his cell phone here, though – that's odd."

Colby's gaze followed his. "Maybe you're right – he _was_ going to join Don, and didn't want us to trace him."

David nodded. "Possibly. Although if he turned his phone off like Don did his, it wouldn't do us much good anyway." Wright was trying to line up a GPS trace on Don's phone, which could be used with a cell phone that had been turned off, but a GPS trace took longer to set up than a cell phone tower triangulation, which was quicker but was only good when the phone was turned on. Wright was going ahead with the GPS trace anyway, but they had no way of knowing if it could be done in time… David's eyes narrowed as they rested on the recording equipment. "Get a BOLO out for Charlie's Prius. Whether someone forced him to leave or he left under his own power – either way, the car will probably lead us to both of them. I'm gonna see what's on that machine."

They both headed for the equipment, Colby pulling out his cell phone and dialing LAPD dispatch as David hovered over the machine. By the time Colby had delivered the brief message, David had the recording going.

They listened intently, with grim faces, and had just reached the point where Tuttle was reciting the address, when there was a noise at the front door. They both started, then, as David hit the 'off' button on the recorder, immediately swung out of sight behind a piece of wall that separated the dining room from the living room, and pulled out their service weapons, holding them upright in front of their faces, their bodies rigid. They could hear the door close; and the sound of something hitting the floor – a satchel perhaps – and then heavy footsteps approached the dining room. Too heavy to be Charlie.

The footsteps were almost upon them, and the intruder would enter the dining room at any second. Colby, who was against the wall behind David, nodded, a silent sign that he had David covered, and they both tensed as one, then swung out from their hiding spot, David in front, aiming at the intruder, and Colby behind him, his gun trained on the living room in case there was anyone else there, behind the man. "Freeze, FBI!" David yelled.

A startled Alan Eppes gasped and staggered, his eyes going wide at the sight of two nine millimeters so close to his head. "Wha-," he rasped, and David and Colby let out simultaneous deep breaths, and dropped their weapons.

Alan's knees looked as though they were buckling, and David reached out to grab his arm to steady him as he hit the safety and holstered his Glock. "Sorry, Alan," he said, trying to calm his own breathing, which had deepened uncomfortably as he realized that he had almost shot his SAC's father. "Don had told us you were out of town – we weren't expecting you back." He tried to steer Alan toward the sofa, but the older man resisted, staring at the apparatus on the dining room table.

"What's going on?"

David and Colby exchanged glances, and Colby strode back over to the machine to rewind it, so they could hear the address again. "It's a long story, and we really don't have time," said David, his voice tight, as the machine began to play back through the brief message. "We think Don and Charlie need some help, and we need to move."

Alan's gaze darted from his face to the machine, and he strained to hear the message over David's voice. The remainder of the recording floated out into the suddenly quiet room.

"_Then I need you and your brother to come directly to an address that I will give you."  
><em>  
><em>"Charlie won't be coming. He's resting at the FBI offices − he couldn't even make the drive home. He's very ill − in fact, I'm going to tell one of my agents to take him to a hospital."<em>

"_That is not an option. Your brother comes with you, or the deal is off. The two of you will come alone _−_ if we see anyone else in the area, we will abort the handoff. You will show up at this address promptly at 7:00 p.m. 410 Carson Street, in East L.A. Don't be late."_

Colby switched off the machine, just as David fumbled for his cell phone and flipped it open. "Damn," he exclaimed softly, "it's a text from Sam Jarrett. He and Don are already down at the warehouse – Sam said they are going in, and he is posing as Charlie. He's requesting backup, as soon as we can get there." As he talked, he and David turned and strode for the front door. "Wait!" Alan emitted a strangled cry as he trotted after them. "What's going on?"

David shook his head as he brought up Wright's number on his cell phone, and Colby opened the front door. "We don't have time to explain. We'll fill you in later."

Alan's eyes flashed. "Like hell you will. If you think I'm going to sit here and wait after what I just heard, you have another think coming. I'll just head down to Carson Street myself and find out." His jaw jutted pugnaciously, and David and Colby looked at each other.

"It might be better to bring him and park him down the block, with an agent or an officer, for his own safety," murmured Colby quietly. "Then someone will have eyes on him."

David nodded, and then jerked his head at Alan. "Come on, then," he said tersely, "we're already late. Head down to the curb – we're parked around the block. Colby and I will swing around and pick you up."

The three trotted out of the entrance, and Alan hurriedly pulled the Craftsman door shut behind them. It closed hard, with a sound of finality, and Alan could hear the front window rattle slightly from the impact as he bustled toward the curb. He could hear David's voice on his cell phone as he reported in to Wright, and Alan glanced back behind the house to see the agents disappear into the darkness and dense shrubbery in the back. He wondered why they had parked on the other block. His head was whirling, his heart still pounding from the unexpected ambush, and from the fear generated by the agents' obvious concern. He had a sudden sympathy for Lewis Carroll's Alice; he felt as though he'd suddenly gone down the rabbit hole, himself.

**…..**

End Chapter 21


	22. Crossfire

**A/N: I am leaving town next week, and want to complete posting this story for you before I go (still 10 or 11 chapters to go). Watch for rapid updates; there may be more than one on some days. FC**

**…**

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 22: Crossfire **

Charlie pulled the Prius around the corner with a screech of tires, and then tromped on the brake and sat there with the engine idling, collecting his thoughts. The little car had seemed maddeningly slow, and although he had made good time, it seemed to take forever to get to the warehouse. It hadn't helped that he'd forgotten his cell phone, left it lying on the table – so he had no way to contact Don to tell him to wait, that he was almost there.

He was on a side street named Smithfield, which ran perpendicular to Carson Street and was right around the corner from the barbecue joint where Sam had spotted Spike Johnson. The block stretched away in front of him, lined by dark buildings, empty except for a figure in a hooded sweatshirt two blocks down. He watched as the figure came into clearer view under the glow of a streetlight, and then crossed Smithfield and turned right – down Carson Street – and passed out of sight behind a large brick building. Charlie frowned, shook his aching head and ran a hand over his eyes to clear his vision – it was already compromised, and the fatigue and the fever were making it worse. The area was otherwise deserted, and he had to wonder who might be wandering around an empty industrial wasteland after dark – unless it was Don, going to meet Tuttle, and it wasn't Don. It was hard to tell how the man was built; he was wearing a baggy hooded sweatshirt, but even in the wan light of the streetlight Charlie had known he wasn't Don. He was too short, and it wasn't Don's gait; Charlie would know that anywhere.

He glanced slightly ahead and to his right – a half block down was Murphy Avenue; Carson Street was one block further. Neither of them was a through street; they both dead-ended on Smithfield, the street on which Charlie sat. Charlie knew from his research on the computer that Murphy Avenue ran along the back of the warehouse, and Carson along the front. He could try to sneak in the back way from Murphy – although Tuttle had said they both needed to be there – maybe it was better if he declared himself and went down Carson Street as Tuttle had directed, and entered in the front of the building. He rubbed his forehead – he felt dizzy; he couldn't think. What should he do?

The lightheaded sensation seemed to increase, and a buzzing began in his ears. The view out the windshield suddenly swirled and dipped. He was going out – _God, not now._ He took deep breaths – or as deep as he could; his chest seemed to be held in a vise. He fought for control, and slowly his vision cleared. He glanced at the clock in the dash. The numbers were still swimming a little, but he could make them out. It was a few minutes after seven; Don was probably already inside. It was suddenly obvious; it would make no sense for him to declare himself now – by going in alone, Don had already disobeyed Tuttle's instructions. Charlie needed to try to go in undetected, and check out the situation before he made himself known.

He subconsciously had been pressing down on the brake with all his might, and his leg was beginning to tremble. He slowly released it, and pulled the Prius all the way over to the curb. It wasn't a legal place to park, but that was the least of his worries. He shut off the ignition and left the car there, and half-ran, half-staggered across the street and down the block, toward Murphy Avenue.

**…..**

Tuttle paced impatiently behind Dominic, who was peering through the filmy window in the man-door next to the loading dock. "What's he doing?" he snapped.

Dominic's finger unconsciously stroked the side of his nine millimeter, as he squinted through a corner of the window. "I dunno. I mean, he's just standing there, kinda bouncing on his heels, lookin' up and down the street."

Spike had come up behind him, but stood back with Tuttle, out of range of the halo of light thrown by the lone security light near the loading dock door, to be sure they couldn't be seen through the window. He frowned. "Is it one of them?"

Dominic squinted. "It ain't Don Eppes – he looks too short. It could be the professor. He looks a little bigger in the body, though – but it might just be that baggy sweatshirt."

Spike snorted. "Well, you could hardly miss the hair."

Dominic half turned back to them and hissed, "I'm not a moron. He's got his hood up, and a ball cap on – I can't see his hair."

Tuttle had stopped pacing and was scowling furiously at the floor, obviously deep in thought. "It could be Charlie – maybe he got here first, and he's waiting for his brother to show. Or it might be neither of them – it might be someone waiting for someone – probably a drug connection." He lifted his eyes, his expression cold. "My money's on the second option – because you can bet they would come here together and they wouldn't be late if they could help it, and they are. They're probably up the block, waiting, trying to see what this bozo is doing." He jerked his head at Dominic. "Open that door, and tell that asshole to get the hell out of here. Make him pull off that hat first; to make sure it isn't one of them."

**…..**

Don Eppes stood outside the warehouse door on the back side of the building, and pulled out his cell phone. The plan was gelling in his mind, now, and he knew he would need backup. He typed in a quick text message to David Sinclair, and copied Colby and Wright and Sam for good measure, giving them his location and letting them know he planned on trying to get inside to the girls, and would need backup shortly. If his plan worked, he would get inside the offices, find Robin and Amita, and hopefully be able to hold off Tuttle and his men until help arrived. He waited for the message to send; then shut off his phone. Taking a breath, he glanced around then pulled the door open and quickly slipped inside, trying to minimize any light that might come through it from the street lights outside. He closed it fast; easing it shut at the last minute, and then turned and stood perfectly still for a moment, listening.

Across the dark expanse of floor, he could see three figures in the stark glare of a lone security light, which was posted over a loading dock door on the far wall. Next to it was a mandoor, and one of the men was peering through a window in it, and the other two stood just outside the circle of illumination, watching him. Don could barely discern the low murmur of voices, but they were too far away for him to hear what was said, and he squinted, trying to make them out. One of them was Tuttle; he was sure of it, and the man standing next to him looked like Spike Johnson. The other didn't look familiar. Obviously, that was the Carson Street entrance, and they were standing there, facing the doorway, waiting for him and Charlie to show.

Don stepped forward, away from the door to a more hidden position from behind some rusting equipment, and slowly took in the rest of the warehouse. It was pitch-black along the walls and in the corners, and there was no way of knowing how many others there might be, and where they might be hiding. Sam had told him that he had seen four of them, so there was at least one more. From the small amount of light, Don could make out the center section of offices that Sam had described, looming in the darkness in roughly the center of the building. He knew that the door to get into them was on the other side – Sam had told him he had seen the men enter there. Don contemplated. His best bet would be to hug the wall to his left and come up behind the offices, and then try to slip along them around to the front, where the door was. The front, unfortunately, faced the Carson Street side of the warehouse and the group of men standing there, and when Don rounded the corner of the offices, he would be in plain sight for a second or two until he reached the office door. If any of them turned…

He shook that thought out of his head, and easing the safety on his Glock to the 'off' position, began moving silently to his left.

**…..**

Charlie ran, staggering and half-stumbling down the block, his breathing tortured and ragged. As he turned the corner onto Murphy Avenue, he could just make out a figure about halfway down. The man was standing, looking down at something in his hands, then he tucked it in his pocket, glanced around, and slipped with catlike speed and stealth through a door, into the warehouse.

The figure was too far away to see features, but the man's way of moving; the set of his shoulders and head was familiar. It was Don; Charlie was sure of it, and he was sorely tempted to call out to him, but he knew he couldn't. He couldn't risk the noise. Even his footsteps; dampened as they were by the rubber soles of his sneakers, sounded too loud, flapping against the concrete. His lungs burned, but he pushed himself harder. Don was up to something – he wasn't following directions to go in on the Carson Street side – instead he was sneaking in the back way, just as Charlie had decided to do. _Had to catch up…_

He got halfway down the block before he began to choke. It felt as though something had lodged in his airway; suddenly he couldn't breathe; he was gagging, coughing, retching, and then he was down on his knees, vomiting and choking. For a moment he was convinced he was going to die, then a breath made it through – he choked again – then gasped for another breath.

The world was whirling around him again, and he just stayed that way for a moment, down on his hands and knees on the rough pavement, head hanging, just trying to take in oxygen. The pool of vomit glistened in the light from a distant streetlight, and the sight and smell of it almost made him retch again. He pushed himself to his feet, staggered against the brick wall next to him, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and leaned against it until his head stopped spinning. After a moment he took off again, more slowly now, on wobbly legs, with a fearful look at the windows in the warehouse. They were set high on the wall, and were gray with grime and dust. It didn't look as though anyone could see through them, but he still wondered if someone had seen him, had heard him. Would they be waiting for him when he slipped through that door, behind his brother? What did he think he was going to accomplish anyway, going in unarmed? Resolutely, he pushed down the doubts. If nothing else, he could create a diversion, if Don needed one. There was no way he was going to let Don face Tuttle alone.

A moment later, he was at the door. It was just slightly ajar, propped open by a bit of broken concrete. He was still gasping for air, and he took a moment to try to quiet his breathing. Then he opened the door and slipped inside.

**…..**

Sam Jarrett bounced on his heels, and took a look up the block.

He wasn't exactly sure what he was accomplishing, or even what impression he was trying to give – but he could tell he was being watched. The window in the mandoor next to the Carson Street loading dock was filthy, but it was backlit by the security light inside, and from time to time he could make out movement in the lower right corner of the window. Someone was crouching there, and peeking out from time to time. As far as diversions went, it seemed to be having a weak effect, and Sam contemplated how he could ratchet up the confusion factor. Approach the door, maybe?

He didn't have to – as he turned his head back to look at the door again, it opened, and a man stepped out. Dark hair; dark object in his hand – a gun. Sam fought the instinct to reach for his own gun, tucked into the back of his jeans. The man brandished the pistol at him, and Sam tensed, and then, playing the part, took a step backward and put up his hands. "Whoa," he said.

"Let me see your face!" the man commanded, stepping forward into the glow of the streetlight. Sam could see his features a little more clearly now – definitely not Spike Johnson, and not J. Everett Tuttle. Dark hair, strong nose – Italian, maybe. Keeping one hand in the air, Sam reached for his hat with the other, and slowly pulled it off, taking the hood down with it. No more chance they would mistake him for Charlie now, but as long as he had their attention, he was doing his job.

"I don't want no trouble," Sam said, whining a little. "I was just waitin' for my – uh, for a buddy."

The man sneered. "Freakin' dopehead – I know what you're waiting for. Call your contact an' tell him you're meetin' him somewhere else. Now clear out of here. This is private property." He waved his gun again, for effect.

"O-okay," stammered Sam, jerking his head a little, like a junkie. He left his hands in the air, making them shake a little, and began to shuffle back down the street the way he had come. "D-don't want no trouble."

He took his time, aware that the man was watching, hoping that Don had had enough time to get inside, and to make it to the entrance of the offices. Even more, he hoped that David Sinclair and the backup team were almost there, because now, things were going to move fast.

**…..**

The diner was on Elondo Avenue, and David buzzed right past it, down to where a patrol car had already set up a blockade, just before the corner of Elondo and Smithfield. Wright had called in LAPD and a swat team, and all of them were converging on the area. Patrol cars would block off the surrounding streets; it appeared that one had been close enough to get there already.

This block was a safe enough place to stow Alan Eppes, David reasoned. Elondo was around two corners and at least a block and a half from the warehouse itself, away from any possible gunfire. Colby had been right; it wasn't safe to leave Alan alone at the house, any more than it had been safe to leave Charlie there alone. They already had two Eppes AWOL – and David was going to make darn sure he kept tabs on the third. He glanced back at Alan. The fire that had been in the man's eyes earlier had been replaced by shock and uncertainty. They had briefed him on the way down on the girls' kidnapping, and their efforts to find them – and on the fact that Don had gone in alone after them – and that they had no idea where Charlie was.

They were stepping out of the car, when the two patrolmen came trotting up. "We just called in the BOLO," one of them said. "There's a blue Prius parked right around the corner, on Smithfield."

Colby frowned. "Hell. Well, now we know where Charlie is. But the text message Don just sent us said he was going in alone." As he spoke, more squad cars pulled up, along with the swat team van. That end of Elondo was effectively blocked off. At that moment, a familiar figure came dashing around the corner, from Smithfield. Sam Jarrett had been making for the patrol car, but as he saw David and Colby, he veered and made a beeline for them.

"Don should already be inside," he panted; as if continuing a conversation, "and I just saw Charlie's car, right around the corner. He must have gotten here a few minutes after we did – but I didn't see him – I don't know where he is. I went down Carson Street, and tried to divert their attention so that Don could get in, but they chased me off. I didn't see Charlie on Carson, or coming up Smithfield. He wasn't supposed to be here. Don didn't want him in this."

David frowned. "Who is 'they?' Do you know how many of them there are?"

Sam shook his head, still panting, still talking fast. "Not for sure. I was down here before Don got here – I ran down to the warehouse and snuck in the back way – there's a door propped open on the back side of the warehouse, on Murphy Street. I saw four of them at least when I was there – not sure if there are any more than that. Two of them are Spike Johnson and Tuttle."

"Tuttle himself?" Colby stared, and then a gleam appeared in his eye. "Damn."

David stepped away from his car, pulling them with him, out of earshot of Alan Eppes. He spoke low and urgently. "If Charlie is following Don in there, he's in real danger of getting caught in the crossfire, especially if Don doesn't know he's there. Don turned his cell phone back off after the text message, and Charlie left his at the house – we have no way to get in touch with either of them. We have to get in there, now."

Sam nodded vigorously. "Even if Charlie isn't inside, Don needs us now – it will only be seconds before they know he's there. He was trying to get into an office complex in the center, where the girls are – but they'll corner him in there, and he'll only be able to hold them off for so long. We need to get in and bail him out."

Liz and Nikki had arrived while they talked. They, the swat team commander and several LAPD officers had congregated nearby, waiting for orders from David, and he looked around at them, chagrined. Colby read his expression.

"You need to stay here, David, you're in charge," he said. "Sam and I will go in immediately; try to provide any assistance we can. You organize the cavalry and come in behind us."

David hesitated; then nodded. Every instinct screamed at him to follow his partner inside, but he had a team to manage. He jerked his head at them. "Get a vest on before you go. We'll be right behind you."

**…..**

In the darkness of the warehouse, Charlie stood for a moment, trying to get his bearings. In spite of the security light on the other side of the building, it was darker inside the warehouse than outside, and his good eye needed time to adjust. The door had let him into the back right corner of the warehouse; to his left, about a hundred yards away, loomed the offices. In front of him, along the right hand wall, equipment was gathered; rusting racks, abandoned forklifts and industrial buggies. There wasn't nearly as much cover to his left, but unfortunately, that was where the offices lay, which seemed the only logical place to hide the girls – if, in fact, they were still being held here.

The back wall, behind him, contained a high row of windows, too coated in grime to let in much light from the streetlights outside, but it was enough to plunge the wall directly underneath them in inky gloom. It stretched away to his left. Charlie decided that his best option was to stick to the darkness under the windows until he reached the office complex, and then work his way around it until he found the entrance.

Hopefully, the entrance didn't face the front of the plant – he could see three figures there. They had taken position around a mandoor on the opposite wall, and were obviously waiting for Charlie and Don to show. Charlie shot one more look to his left. If there were more of them, they could be stationed around the warehouse, possibly right in his path. As he peered into the gloom, movement caught his eye – there was someone creeping along the side of the offices, toward the front. The figure's need for stealth could only mean one thing – it must be Don. As Charlie watched and the figure crept closer to the light, he became certain – it _was_ Don. He was only yards away, but he didn't turn, and there was no way to get his attention.

Charlie's heart sank. He couldn't see an entrance on that side of the offices, and Don's direction of travel could only mean one thing – that the entrance was in the front, right in full view of the men, if they were to turn around. He found himself holding his breath as Don made the corner of the building, and slipped around it out of his view. Nothing. The men were talking quietly up front, and never turned around. A few seconds passed, and Charlie let out his breath – he found he couldn't hold it for long; that brief stint had left him nearly breathless again. He took a few quiet breaths, trying to fight down the urge to cough; waiting, waiting…

There was no sound, no reaction from the men – Don must have made the doorway by now. Charlie was relieved, but still, he hesitated. He had initially rushed down to the warehouse in panic because Don had disobeyed Tuttle's orders, sure he would be needed if Don changed his mind and decided that they should go in together. Up until this moment, he had hoped he would catch Don and be able to touch base – confident that Don could assign him to do something to help. Without that contact, Charlie was at a loss as to what his assignment should be – but he knew without a doubt that standing there debating in the corner of the warehouse was doing nothing. If he was to be effective at all, he needed to try to get to his brother's side. Two were better than one, if it came down to a fight – and Don wasn't the only one who would fight to the finish for the woman he loved. Charlie drew a shaky breath. He was wearing a dark tweed jacket over dark jeans, but his T-shirt was light gray. He turned up his collar and buttoned his jacket to hide the lightness of his shirt, and stepped carefully back and to his left. Ducking just a bit to make sure he was in the deepest part of the shadow under the windows, he began making his way along the back wall of the warehouse, quickly but quietly, toward the offices.

**…..**

Sam and Colby pounded around the corner and down Smithfield, Sam trying valiantly to keep up. The vest he had put on under the bulky hooded sweatshirt added to his discomfort. "_I'm getting too old for this_," he thought to himself, but he said, between puffs, "We need to head down Murphy."

He pulled on Colby's arm, and they came to a stop opposite Murphy Avenue. "There's where we go in," said Sam. He jabbed finger down Murphy. "That building on your left is the warehouse. About halfway down the block you'll see the back loading dock and the back mandoor. It's propped open – we'll go in there. We'll be in the back right corner of the warehouse and the offices will be to our left. They should be watching the front – although –," he looked at his watch, "It's already nearly twenty after seven. Hopefully, they haven't decided to abort yet."

Colby nodded. "Okay, I got it. Let's go."

He took off down Murphy, and Sam charged down the street behind him, praying. "_Just a few more minutes; give us just a few more minutes._"

**…..**

Don Eppes ducked inside the office doorway, and held his breath. He could still hear murmurs outside – that was good – the subdued tones meant no one had seen him slip through the entrance. Yes, they were speaking softly – they were keeping their conversation quiet from necessity – but that didn't mean that Tuttle wasn't angry. As Don had gotten closer, he could make out some of their conversation. Tuttle was in fact incensed, because Don and Charlie hadn't shown up yet. They were getting ready to abort, to call it off. Well, now they could – Don would be inside the offices with the girls, and Tuttle and his men would have to get down a narrow hallway past Don and his Glock – and that wasn't happening. And in a few minutes, backup would be here. Tuttle didn't know it yet, but he was finished. It was all over but the shooting.

Now safely out of the sight of the men outside, Don crept slowly down the hallway of the office complex, crouching with both hands on his weapon, intent on a room at the end of the hall on the left. Light was spilling out of the open doorway, and he thought he heard a soft sound, a woman's voice. His heart leapt. Until now, he didn't even have evidence that the women were present, or still alive – but it made sense that Tuttle would keep them that way until he was sure he had Don and Charlie in his grasp. Still, the thought that he would see Robin again in minutes nearly broke his concentration, and he had to force himself back into the moment. He glanced briefly into the other offices to his right and left, and into the open door of a restroom, but they were all dark, and appeared to be unoccupied. Protocol would have dictated that a situation like this be handled with at least a team of three, with them clearing every room along the way, but he didn't have a team of three. He fully expected at least one guard – Sam had told him he had seen four men, and Don had seen three out front – and it was likely that the man was in the room with Amita and Robin. So, other than quick cursory glimpses inside, Don ignored the darkened rooms along the way, and prepared himself for a standoff at the end of the hallway.

He paused at the entrance just briefly, then whirled around inside the doorway, Glock extended, sweeping the room. He took in Robin's and Amita's startled faces, but ignored them until he was satisfied the room was empty. It was disturbing – the back of his mind was wondering where the fourth man was – but the sight of Robin and Amita and the sound of their excited, hushed voices submerged the worry. He crossed the floor to them, dropping the gun toward the floor, and knelt. "Ssh," he said, reaching out to tenderly caress Robin's bruised cheek. "It's okay –," his face darkened, "they hurt you, didn't they? I need you to be quiet for a minute – this isn't over yet. Do you know where the keys for those cuffs are?"

"Yeah, I do," sneered a voice behind him, and Don whirled to see a man in the doorway, gun extended. He had just time to think, 'fourth man', and dive to his left away from the women, when the man's gun erupted. Both women screamed. Don was shooting back as he went, and grunted in pain as a slug ripped into his hip, and another grazed his arm. The man snarled and jerked – one of Don's shots had connected with his upper arm, but unfortunately, it wasn't his gun arm. Don ended up hard on his back on the floor, and squeezed off another shot as the man took aim.

The next second was enough to make Don a believer in the discussions his mathematician brother held with his friend Larry Fleinhardt on the theories surrounding relativity. Because just as the bullet left his gun, a figure launched itself from the doorway onto the back of the shooter, forcing the man to duck, and putting the figure into the path of Don's oncoming bullet. It was the briefest flash of time, but it seemed like an eon. It was enough time for Don to wish for that bullet back, and enough time to watch in horror as Charlie was tossed against the far wall – both by the man, as he straightened and flung Charlie off, and by the impact of the bullet. Don's bullet, from his gun.

For a moment, no one moved; even Amita, who had screamed when the fighting started, sat dazed, wordless. Charlie and Don stared at each other, each propped half-upright against opposite walls – Don staring in horror; Charlie in shock, with an odd faraway look in his eyes that told Don that the pain hadn't hit yet. His jacket was dark and Don couldn't see where the bullet had entered. He knew Charlie had been shot, though; blood was smeared down the wall where he had slid. That meant an exit wound out the back. _He'd shot his brother, he'd shot Charlie…_

The man with the gun appeared almost as stunned as they were, but collected himself first. "Drop it," he hissed at Don, pointing the gun at Charlie's head. "Drop it, or I finish him." Shooting had started outside in the warehouse, but no one moved in the small room.

The man cocked his nine millimeter manually – it was unneeded, but he did it for effect, keeping it trained on Charlie's head, just three feet away. "Drop it," he said again, and Don slowly lowered his Glock, and slid it across the floor.

**…..**

End Chapter 22


	23. Firefight

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 23: Firefight **

Don forced himself to maintain eye contact with the sneering man who held a gun to his wounded brother's head. "Take it," he growled, shoving his own weapon across the floor. He could hear Amita crying quietly behind him, and Robin trying to comfort her, although her own voice shook with fear.

The man sneered at Don and stopped the forward motion of the Glock with his foot. "Oh, this is perfect," he said, glancing quickly at Charlie and moving his own weapon away from the professor's head. He re-trained it so that it pointed at the women in the corner. "Really, I can't thank you enough. Saved me a bullet, and guaranteed me an 'AttaBoy' from Tuttle. I'm just wondering if I should go ahead and kill the bitches now, or let the other guys have some fun, first. What do you think, agent?" He sounded cocky, but the gunfire was intensifying outside, and he kept sending nervous glances back over his shoulder, toward the door.

"You'll never get out of here alive," Don promised, painfully pushing himself into a more upright position, but still slumped against the wall. "I've got backup from LAPD _and_ the FBI – it sounds as though they are already here. How stupid do you think we are?"

Paully snorted a laugh, as he turned his gun toward the motionless figure on the floor. "Stupid enough to shoot each other," he sneered. "But maybe I should finish him first, anyway, before I do the rest of you and get the hell out of here," he said, as he began a slow squeeze of the trigger. Don winced, his eyes moving toward a now-unconscious Charlie. His gut contracted; then his heart leapt as a familiar voice yelled "Freeze! FBI!" and he turned his head to see Paully wheel, and level his gun at Colby, in the doorway. Colby's gun barked, and Paully slumped gracelessly to the floor. He landed on top of Charlie's outstretched legs, and his brother's lack of reaction terrified Don. Nothing in Don Eppes' long and distinguished career had prepared him for this. He had skipped this class at Quantico — the one entitled "How To React After You Accidentally Shoot Your Brother". The agent blinked, barely processing Colby's entrance into the room. Granger glanced at him quickly, his face full of concern as his gaze took in the terrified women in one corner of the office, Charlie slumped in another, and a clearly wounded and shocked Don Eppes somewhere in the middle.

Granger forced himself to refocus on the bad guy lying akimbo at his feet. Colby kicked the weapon away from Paully's hand, then dropped to his knees to check for a pulse. Protocol would have the agent keep his distance until someone else was there to cover him, but Granger had hit the perp with a clean shot at short range; the slug from his service weapon had entered Paully's chest, traveled straight through his body, and blossomed out of his back, moving on until it buried itself in the plaster wall over Don's head. The fact that Don hadn't seemed to register that, despite the bits of plaster that rained on his head, concerned Colby; obviously, Eppes was in shock. Paully's eyes were open, already glazing over as he stared unseeing at the ceiling; this Bad Guy was obviously entering forced retirement, and was no threat to Granger.

Colby quickly confirmed his suspicions with two fingers to the perp's carotid artery, then holstered his own weapon and started searching Paully's pockets for a handcuff key. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Don struggling to get up, and he barked at him without looking in his direction. "Stay down, Don. You're hit, and there's a firefight out in the warehouse, in case you hadn't noticed." As if to punctuate his sentence, a bullet suddenly exploded through the drywall, hit the metal doorjamb casing with a _plink_, ricocheted off, and landed at Colby's feet, clattering to the cement floor, the sound covered by the continuing gun battle that raged around it. Everyone in the office winced — save the unconscious Charlie and a dead Paully — and Colby's half-crouched form shuddered and hunched down even further.

Don was torn. He wanted to go to his brother. He also wanted to return to the women. Unfortunately, his hip and shoulder were on fire and uncooperative, allowing him to do neither. After he made several more unsuccessful attempts at rising, he groaned in both frustration and pain, slumping back against the wall. The groan seemed to jumpstart the women, both of whom began speaking at the same time.

There was an edge of hysteria in the ordinarily unflappable Robin's voice. "Colby, get me out of these things! Shoot them off if you have to!"

Amita's contribution to the confusion was a plaintive plea, her gaze locked on Charlie, slumped across the room. "Please-don't-be-dead," she whispered in a repetitive mantra. "Please-don't-be-dead, Please-don't-be-dead…"

Colby ignored them all, and kept searching a dead man.

**…...**

Sam Jarrett hadn't figured on a one-on-three battle in a darkened warehouse when he'd decided to travel to L.A., but that situation hadn't lasted long. Sam had used his first three bullets covering Granger, giving Colby the time and distraction he needed to get into position outside the warehouse office. By that time, Liz and Nikki had entered the warehouse, along with several other agents. As the gun battle entered its full swing, Jarrett had navigated around what little cover the unused warehouse offered — empty boxes and dusty barrels didn't give him much to work with — but Jarrett had slithered along the floor like an Idaho rattler, until he managed to position himself slightly to the left of Spike Johnson, who had not seen Sam's crawling approach in the dark warehouse. Spike was using the flashes of light caused by firing weapons trying to find his own cover, and firing back blindly at the flashes.

Sam squinted one eye closed, found Spike Johnson's knee at the end of his sight, and began a squeeze with his trigger finger. "I ain't never," he grumbled lowly to himself as he completed the motion, "coming back to Cal - I - forn - I - A again. Crazy sons of…" His last words were drowned out by the discharge of his borrowed weapon — and the scream from Spike Johnson as his knee went out from under him.

**…...**

J. Everett Tuttle was livid.

He had sorely underestimated Don Eppes; he had never for one moment believed that the agent would endanger the lives of his brother, his girlfriend, and his brother's fiancée by double-crossing him and bringing all this fire power with him to the meet.

He ducked into the bathroom, squatted in the corner like an animal, and banged his fist against the side of the small cabinet that housed the sink. "Damn it!" he snarled. What the hell had gone wrong this time? The cops had somehow come in the back way – although he had to admit, he hadn't paid much attention to the back of the cavernous building. Dominic had reported that all the back doors were secure – obviously, he hadn't checked carefully. Tuttle shook his head, seething. He had never believed that Eppes would cross him, with the life of Robin Brooks at stake.

Not only had Eppes turned his own trap against him, the moment opposition had shown up, his "staff" had disintegrated like so much cotton candy. He had no idea where Paully was; he had been left in the office to guard the women when all hell broke loose. Spike Johnson, supposedly Tuttle's right-hand man and his new deputy, had disappeared into the dark warehouse, leaving an unarmed Tuttle to fend for himself. He had been forced to literally cower behind Dominic as he blasted his way toward the back mandoor facing Murphy Street. He must still have been trying to get there — Tuttle could still hear shooting — but J. Everett had broken off when they had reached the bathroom - a separate bathroom from the ones in the office complex – this one was tucked in the corner of the warehouse.

The warehouse had last housed a chop shop; Tuttle had gone over every inch of it days before he had put the wheels of the plan in motion. He smiled grimly in the dark. One of his finds was the trap door in the bathroom – an escape route that the men who had run the chop shop had put in, in case they needed to make a hasty exit. It opened onto another section of the warehouse; the plan had been to escape through the trap door into the section of warehouse that faced Smithfield, in case of a raid. There were several high windows in that section of wall; directly under the corner window, less than 30 feet from the trap door, a "doggie door" had been installed. It was big enough for the large breeds — St. Bernards, Rottweilers, Dobermans, Humans…

Bathroom trap door, 25 feet of warehouse, doggie door, zip between two outbuildings, squirt out to get lost in Greater Los Angeles...freedom for J. Everett Tuttle was just a few feet away.

**…...**

Alan coughed as he leaned forward again to peer out the front window of the sedan. He could barely identify the occasional dark shape that dashed by as human. What was happening? Where were his sons?

"I don't know if I'm seeing double or if there are really a lot of people out there," he complained to the young officer who had been assigned as his keeper.

He could detect a certain envy in the response. "We got LAPD SWAT, uniformed officers, detectives; half the Los Angeles Bureau of the FBI must be out there. I heard there's a hostage negotiation team setting up in a van outside the warehouse."

Alan's brain was addled by flu and worry — but he hadn't raised two sons and learned nothing along the way. "You don't look old enough to have been on the force long. Is this the biggest thing you've ever seen?"

"Hell, yeah," gushed the rookie. "When me and my T.O. got the call... damn, I'd like to be in the middle of it, ya know?" His eyes flickered to meet Alan's in the rear view mirror. "I mean, I'm sure it will all turn out okay for your sons, and all. It's just the most excitement I've seen since I joined the force."

Alan, shivering in the back seat of the unmarked cruiser, forced himself to smile. "And when was that?" he asked pleasantly. "My oldest has been with the Bureau for so long, I'd almost forgotten how excited he was when he first came out of Quantico."

"See, that's why it will all work out," answered the uniformed officer. "His experience, I mean. Me, I been out of the Academy and on the streets almost three months. I'm real lucky to even get this close to something this big."

The idea that had been germinating in Alan's head sprouted a leaf. "But you'd rather be out there with them," he said. "Your partner's out there. I know how a cop feels about his partner, even if he's only been a cop for three months."

The officer shrugged. "Well, yeah. Goes without saying that I'd like to be backing up my T.O. But this is what he ordered me to do — stay back here with you."

"We're pretty far back," Alan mused. "I can barely see them, the action's so far away." He shivered. "I can hear the gunfire, though."

"Yeah," agreed the officer, a trifle sadly. "Don't let that worry you — like you said, we're safe back here."

Alan let a beat pass. Then he coughed again. "I'd be safe here by myself," he finally ventured. "I could lock all the doors. My sons and my future daughters-in-law can use all the help they can get. Maybe you should join the others."

The young officer glanced quickly at Alan, who was sure that the glow of a nearby street light captured a gleam of eagerness in the officer's eye. "I got my orders..."

Alan measured his response carefully. "I understand. It's just that I've been a cop's father for so long, now; I also understand how much you must want to be part of the action."

The radio suddenly cackled to life. "12-99," shouted a disembodied voice, obviously tinged with pain. "I'm hit, 12-99!"

"Shit," blurted the young officer, leaning to turn up the radio. "That was my T.O.'s voice, I'm sure of it! He's been hit!"

"Oh, dear God," breathed Alan. "They need help right away!" He half-turned in his seat. "Aren't there trauma kits in the units?"

"Yeah," answered the rookie, his left hand creeping to the door handle. "Yes. I'm...I'm supposed to stay..."

Alan encouraged the young man, laying a hand on his right shoulder. "He's your partner," he said. "I promise, I'll lock the door as soon as you get outside. The next officer down could be my son! Please, please, take them the kit. You have to help your partner!"

The young man let himself be convinced. Hurriedly, he pressed the button that released the trunk and opened the driver's door. "I'll grab the kit," he said excitedly, glancing back at Alan as he got out of the vehicle. "You just sit tight; you're safe back here, but lock the doors anyway."

"I will," promised Alan, leaning forward to depress the lock while the officer watched from outside. The cop tapped the window twice in acknowledgement, tried to give Alan a reassuring smile, then ran to the back of the unit and grabbed the trauma kit from the trunk. He slammed the lid and took off in a dead run toward the warehouse, without so much as a backwards glance.

End, Chapter 23


	24. We All Fall Down

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 24: We All Fall Down **

J. Everett Tuttle knelt by the small door, like the dog that he was, and listened to the flurry of activity on the other side of the wall. It sounded like at least two people were jogging along the side of the building.

"It's Martin," he heard clearly. "I heard the 12-99."

"Ah, damn," another voice answered, this one a little more breathless than the first; this officer was probably old and overweight, Tuttle decided. "Martin's six months from retirement!"

"EMTs could already be on the perimeter," Tuttle heard, and he nodded slightly; this was good information to have. The whole damn cavalry probably surrounded the building. The voices had faded to the extent that he could not hear the fat officer's response, and Tuttle waited another few seconds to see if he could hear anyone else. If an officer had been shot, all the other law enforcement personnel would converge upon his location; cops stuck together like mutant ectoplasm when one of them was threatened. Tuttle's dealings with law enforcement over the years had certainly taught him that much, at least. Another set of feet ran through the gravel outside, but there was no talking; this cop must be alone.

The shooting in the warehouse had stopped, and Tuttle's nervousness increased. He blessed whoever had managed to nail this Martin, and wished Eppes had gone down instead, but the lack of gunfire made him wonder if one or more of his own men had been hit at the same time. Still, he forced himself to wait another 30 seconds. He was planning to wait for a full minute, but the warehouse echoed with shouts, and they sounded like they were getting closer. He wasn't coming this far only to be discovered.

Tuttle inhaled a deep breath, and scuttled through the doggie door on his hands and knees.

**…...**

To his credit, Alan had started to keep his word.

He and the young officer had been placed in an unmarked vehicle. While most suspects were transported in marked cruisers, still the back seat in which Alan sat had no locks on either of the doors. He leaned far over the seat to check the front passenger door, which he found locked. Then he slid to check the driver's door. The locking mechanism was securely depressed into the upholstery, and Alan gently rubbed it with his forefinger for a moment. Then he relaxed into the back seat, again.

The radio was disturbingly silent; Alan wondered if the young officer had turned the radio off, or down, or something, before he left. Alan leaned forward again, hoping the moonlight and a nearby street lamp offered enough light for him to see the control knobs. He had to know what was happening.

He squinted until he thought he located the volume, reached toward the knob, and paused. "To hell with this," he muttered. "We heard someone say there was a paramedic unit arriving onsite; I know they'll be back away from the action, where it's safe. That's where they'll bring the boys, too. I'm going to find the EMTs, and wait there."

Decision made, Alan climbed awkwardly over the back of the seat, banging his knee hard on the steering wheel. He grimaced, fell more than sat in the front seat, and reached down with one hand to rub his knee.

With the other hand, he unlocked the driver's door.

**…...**

David spoke into the communications unit secured to his ear. While he spoke he slowly approached Dominic's body, weapon steady in his outstretched hands. He kicked Dominic's piece away from the body. "Granger, you in?"

Colby answered from the office, his voice strained, breathless, and delivered directly to Sinclair's ear. "Yeah. One down. I got everybody — the women, the Eppes. I need some medics."

David swallowed and knelt to check Dominic for a pulse. "Anybody conscious? I need some intel — how many bad guys am I looking for?" Muttering, he answered his own question as he straightened. "Looking for one less, now. This one's dead."

"Robin says there were three guys watching them; remember, Jarrett saw Tuttle, too."

As if summoned by the mention of his name, Sam Jarrett suddenly popped up from behind an empty barrel, spotting Agent Sinclair and the body at his feet. He held up his index finger, indicating that he had also taken out a suspect. "Got one over here," he called. "Spike Johnson. He's cuffed, wounded in the leg."

"Sam got one as well," David informed Granger. "Sounds like we're down to one."

The sound of Colby's growl was clear over David's earpiece. "Whaddya want to bet it's Tuttle?" Granger asked. "Damn guy is an eel."

"Not this time," David answered. "This time, we'll fry him up and serve him for dinner."

**…...**

J. Everett Tuttle zipped across the narrow strip of gravel that surround the warehouse, and was halfway across Smithfield, aiming for an alley between two smaller outbuildings, when another cop squirted out of the alley, and onto Smithfield. He was young, carrying a large canvas pack, and looked at Tuttle frantically. The streetlight on the corner of Smithfield and Carson cast a weak glow over the two men as they met in the middle of the street.

"Are you with the FBI?" asked the officer. "I heard a 12-99; I think it's my partner, I've got to get to him!" He hefted the canvas pack. "I've got our trauma kit."

Tuttle processed the information quickly. He gestured down the street, toward the front of the warehouse. "It's Martin!" he shouted. "Hurry with that kit — I'm going after the EMTs!"

"Oh, God," the rookie gulped, turning and running away from Tuttle. It never even occurred to the officer to wonder why the "FBI agent" was running _away_ from the paramedics, instead of _toward_ them.

**…...**

At first, Alan lurked in the background.

There was sufficient activity for him to easily find what must be "Command Central" on Carson Street. There were several LAPD squad cars, some unmarked sedans and SUVs that no doubt had carried FBI agents to the scene, and an EMT unit from the fire department. He didn't recognize any of the officers scurrying past, and eventually began to move closer to the paramedic who was standing near the rear of his unit. He was close enough to hear clearly when a second paramedic came around the side of the vehicle and began speaking.

"Just heard from Raines, up front."

The first EMT shivered once, and hunched into his jacket. "Damn, it's getting cold, for L.A. They're all the way up on Elondo, right?"

The second paramedic nodded. "Raines said we got multiple vics coming out; they've called in another unit. Taking at least four out to Raines and Davis — two women, two men. As soon as the warehouse is secure, you and I need to go in to treat the LAPD cop; gut shot, and they don't want to move him."

The first paramedic moved to begin climbing into the back of the vehicle. "I'll get the Stokes," he began, but Alan was already moving away. He hadn't realized that there were at least two locations for the police, bureau, and medical people — but it made sense. One group at the back of the warehouse, one group at the front. Obviously, he needed to get to the other area, on Elondo. Don, Charlie, Robin, and Amita would be brought to the EMT unit there.

Two smaller buildings stood parallel to the side of the main warehouse, on the other side of Smithfield Street. All three were empty, and painted similarly; they had obviously once all been part of the same business. As Alan hurried past the first, he tried to convince himself that it was good news that his sons and the women could be brought to the paramedics on Elondo; maybe they had all escaped serious injury. Perhaps they could even walk on their own. He quickened his pace. He would be there to meet them, no matter what.

**…...**

As the senior agent on the scene, David Sinclair maintained a presence in the main warehouse. He soon ascertained that he had killed one bad guy, Sam Jarrett had wounded another, Colby had killed a third in the office, and J. Everett Tuttle had escaped. Again.

LAPD officers were on their third search of the almost-empty warehouse before they found the trap door in the small secondary bathroom. The officers were thorough and professional, but understandably distracted; one of their own had gone down in the firefight — it was still unclear who had shot him. It was a gut shot that entered directly below the bottom of his bulletproof vest, a fluke, and the other LAPD officers were shaken, and angry.

David had dispatched Nikki to the office, along with several other agents and Sam Jarrett, to assist Colby; Liz he kept in the warehouse. LAPD showed her the trap door first; when she called David to the scene, the two of them crouched low to shine flashlights through the open space. An outside street lamp was casting light through one of the high windows as well. Between the two flashlights and the street light, Liz clearly saw the outline of the doggie door in the far wall, about 25 or 30 feet away.

"What the hell is that?" she asked. "You seeing that, David? Under the corner window."

Sinclair squinted, then grunted. "Looks like a damn doggie door. My grandma had one in her kitchen door, for her Pomeranian."

Liz narrowed her own eyes, shoved David slightly to one side, and began to crawl through the trap door. "Pretty damn big Pomeranian," she muttered.

**…...**

Tuttle couldn't believe his luck when the young officer turned away from him and started sprinting toward the front of the warehouse. He'd have to send a box of cigars to whomever had shot that cop; having one of their own at risk was definitely confusing the situation, and making it easier for him to slip right through the middle of all the activity. He entered a small alley between two outbuildings, and nearly laughed out loud.

He jogged through the alleyway, and paused near the end. There was another streetlight nearby; he could see that the fronts of the outbuildings were illuminated, and he hid in the shadows for a few moments to make sure no more cops came running by. He briefly considered trying to make it to Leon's Liquors, but decided against it — he could see a lot of activity and flashing lights in that area. He decided instead to head in the opposite direction; hopefully his driver would prove a better employee than the idiots in the warehouse had been, and manage to avoid detection. If Tuttle could get himself lost in the underbelly of the city, he should be able to think of a way to meet up with the driver. In the meantime, if he met any more cops or FBI agents, he would have to explain why he was leaving the scene, but he almost looked forward to the opportunity. He'd always thought well on his feet, and the adrenaline rush brought on by danger avoided couldn't be surpassed. Decision made, he stepped out of the alley, immediately turning right — and directly into the path of Alan Eppes.

**…...**

The sudden appearance of a body coming out of the alleyway caused Alan's steps to sputter, then stop. He coughed heavily into his sleeve and concentrated on catching his breath. This must be an LAPD detective, or an agent he hadn't met...or maybe he _had_ met this man, somewhere along the way. There was something vaguely familiar about him. Alan started walking again, and hurried toward the man — perhaps he could find out more about what was going on in the warehouse.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice raspy. He cleared his throat as the man turned in his direction, and tried again. "Excuse me, can you tell me..." He gasped as Tuttle stepped more fully into the illumination of the street lamp. "Sweet Lord," he murmured. "It's you!"

**…...**

Tuttle regarded the man in front of him. His first fleeting thought had been that the man was too old to be a cop — but he had quickly recognized Alan Eppes. He had a two-inch-thick folder on the Eppes patriarch, complete with dozens of photos. He had considered grabbing him when he grabbed the women — but decided against it, consoling himself with the knowledge that by the time he was done, he would leave the old man with no sons, no daughters-in-law, completely bereft. Tuttle would stand the old proverb on its head, so that the sins of the sons were visited on the father. Now he smiled at the opportunity dropped into his lap. Maybe the Eppes brothers and the women would live — but he could make them sorry they had.

He snarled and rushed at Alan, using the elements of shock and surprise to slam the old man back against the side of the outbuilding, moving his hands up toward Alan's neck. He was surprised when the old man fought back, bringing up his arms to break Tuttle's hold, and then slamming his own head full-on into Tuttle's face; hard.

Tuttle involuntarily gasped and reached toward his nose. The old man curled his fists into the collar of Tuttle's shirt and whirled him around, so that their positions were reversed. Tuttle saw stars when the back of his head hit the metal building. Instinctively, he brought up a knee, making hard contact with the Eppes' family jewels. The old man grunted, let go of Tuttle's shirt and leaned forward over his midsection, toward the sidewalk.

Tuttle responded with a quick uppercut to Alan's chin, and a vicious kick to his knee. This time, Alan cried out, and dropped all the way to the sidewalk when his knee gave out. Tuttle leaned over him, grabbed two fistfuls of hair, and slammed Eppes' head into the sidewalk. Eppes' body had grown heavy, and limp – Tuttle was sure the old man was unconscious. A few more good blows, and he could make the damn brothers into orphans. Tuttle repositioned his hands in Alan's hair, grunting with the effort it required to pull the man up. He was about to slam Alan into the sidewalk again when the shrill sound of his cellphone startled him into simply dropping Alan, and taking a step back in fright. Was that a siren? Had they spotted him? His eyes darted frantically around for the few seconds it took for him to register the sound as his cell phone; then he became concerned that the noise would draw unwanted attention. He continued to back toward the building, scrabbling in his pocket for the phone.

"What?" he growled into the instrument.

"Boss?" Tuttle recognized his driver's voice. "You ok? What's goin' on? I tried to get back to the warehouse for the pick-up like you said, but the place is swarming with cops!"

Tuttle tightened his grip on the phone. Thank God, he still had one employee in possession of a brain cell. "Get away from the area, Vince. It went bad," he informed the man. "We're implementing the back-up plan. Do you remember where?"

"Absolutely," his driver answered, all business. "Your bags are in the trunk. I went back and changed out the limo for the Maserati, as you instructed. I'm about twenty minutes away from Raphael Street."

Tuttle groaned and closed his eyes. "No, you idiot!" he hissed. "We decided Raphael had too many streetlights, remember? I'll meet you on the corner of 5th and Davis."

His driver sounded chagrined. "That's right. Sorry, boss – I remember, we decided it's closer to a freeway exit, too. Just you?"

"Just me," Tuttle confirmed, moving back out onto the sidewalk to regard Alan's still form. He wished he had time to properly finish the job, but he didn't. Maybe the man's age would be enough to finish things for him. "I'm on foot, but I should be there within the hour. Don't make me wait for you."

He disconnected the call, replaced the phone in his pocket, and paused, looking at Alan Eppes, fingering his gun. He couldn't risk a shot right now, though; the noise would draw attention. He moved toward the prone figure, with the intent of landing a last kick to the head. Just as he drew his foot back, though, he heard shouting; much closer to his location than he was comfortable with. Tuttle snarled in frustration, cast one last look at the still body on the sidewalk, and took off running.

Alan waited until the sound of the footfalls had completely faded. Then he painfully propped himself up on one elbow, and reached into the pocket of his overcoat for his own phone.

**…...**

End, Chapter 24


	25. Let's Make A Deal

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 25: Let's Make A Deal **

David Sinclair's silence was louder than anything Colby Granger had ever heard. Granger slumped in the passenger seat of the sedan and waited for the inevitable eruption.

He was pretty sure there was going to be one — during all their years as partners, he'd only witnessed a full-out Sinclair explosion on two other occasions, so there was always a chance it wouldn't happen — bur the signs were all there, screaming loudly in the tense silence. The death-grip on the steering wheel. The rapid bobbing up-and-down of the left knee. The harsh, uneven breaths. The grim set of the mouth. The…

"SON OF A BITCH!" David suddenly yelled, letting go of the steering wheel long enough to bang a fist on the console. "SON OF AN EVERLOVIN' _**BITCH!**_"

Colby winced; glad they were parked at the moment. "It's not your fault" was so not going to fly, here. He swallowed, and finally settled for, "Break anything? Radio? Hand?"

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up."

Granger bristled, straightening in his seat. "Hey. I'm just asking."

David didn't seem to hear him. "I can't believe we took Alan anywhere near the scene. Should've cuffed him to his stair banister, if we had to. What were we thinking?" Venomous sarcasm leaked into his voice. "That an Eppes could be trusted?" He snorted. "At least we know why Don didn't call us sooner; he inherited the Stubborn Ass Gene."

Colby continued to stare out the window, squinting into the darkness. His mind was still on the scene at warehouse – both Eppes brothers being carted out on stretchers, Robin looking bruised and dazed; Amita in tears. That wasn't even the worst of the images; Charlie, still unconscious as he was being lifted from a pool of blood, and Don's eyes – filled with pain, grief, and guilt as he craned his neck to look anxiously at his brother – kept rising to the forefront. He knew that similar images were on David's mind, too. Colby swallowed, opened his mouth to speak; then shut it again. He could point out that they'd made the decision to bring Alan along for his own safety, not wanting to leave him alone at the Craftsman and unprotected against any possible retribution or offensives by Tuttle or his men, but that would only serve as reminder that it hadn't mattered much. Even though they'd brought him along for his own safety, Alan had still been attacked and injured. Best not to acknowledge this conversation at all, he decided. "I hope Tuttle falls for this. Do you think we got here too late?"

Sinclair exhaled. "He's on foot. He's got to be still on his way here. LAPD pulled over his driver within five minutes of Alan's call."

Colby grinned. "Yeah, that was a thing of beauty. About time we caught a break in this damn case." He looked forward, toward the red Maserati parked a few car lengths ahead of them. "I still think one of us should be sitting in that car."

David followed his gaze. "We needed someone who could be mistaken for his driver – Arroyo- at first glance. Even in the dark, it's pretty obvious that I'm black and you're…from Idaho."

Colby took his eyes off the streets and turned his head toward David. "From Idaho? What the hell does that mean?"

"Just that I'd never confuse you with a skinny Latino, cowboy," David answered.

Granger huffed. "Not everybody from Idaho is a cowboy," he protested, turning his head to look out the window again. "Geez."

"Who still misses his childhood horse?" asked David, a hint of amusement finally entering his voice.

Colby pretended to pout, although he had to suppress a smile; it seemed he had successfully distracted David. "Dude. Are we having a _Brokeback Mountain_ moment?"

David laughed out loud, and Colby finally allowed his own dimples to show. "Great idea Liz had to BOLO Tuttle's vehicles; lucky we already had a recent DMV listing."

"Cross-checking known Tuttle associates and employees was a good idea, too," David said. "Nikki had Arroyo's name before we even had a third ambulance for Alan." His voice grew despondent. "I still can't believe we ever thought bringing him to the scene was a good idea."

"His injuries aren't life-threatening," Colby pointed out. "He never even lost consciousness, and he raised all kinds of hell when they wouldn't let him over to the other triage area to see Don and Charlie. As if he could even walk, with a blown knee."

"We probably should have ordered a fourth bus," David mused.

"Robin and Amita refused medical transport," Colby argued. "It was all we could do to get them in a police unit."

"I'm not talking about them," answered David. "Liz and Nikki will make sure they're examined. I'm talking about us — Don is going to kill us."

Granger grimaced. "Yeah. Probably give us CPR after, so Charlie can kill us too." They fell silent, and Colby knew that despite all the banter about Alan, they were both wondering how the Eppes brothers were doing. Personally, Colby would gladly fend off attempted murder, if it meant that Don and Charlie Eppes came out of the debacle well enough to try it.

**…...**

Alan glared at the on-call physician.

"Absolutely not. I don't have time for an MRI, or a skull series, or anything else right now. I have a headache, my knee hurts, and I'll damn well live with both of those things as long as I have to. I want to talk to the physicians treating my sons. Get me a wheelchair, or I swear, I'll crawl down this hall."

The doctor suppressed a sigh. "Mr. Eppes, I beg you to be reasonable. Your knee is already swollen to twice its normal size, and even though you didn't lose consciousness during the assault, from your description of the scuffle, you could well have a concussion. I suspect cracked ribs, as well. What good will you do either of your sons if you can't walk? If a cracked rib completely fractures and pierces a lung? Or worse, if you ignore a serious head injury and have an inter-cranial hemorrhage? Besides, both men are being examined as we speak; it will be hours before any solid information is available. Let's put the time to good use, shall we?"

Alan crossed his arms over his chest, and narrowed his eyes, one of which was blackening rapidly from the head-butt to Tuttle's face. "Do not talk to me as if I were a child, young man. I'm not feeble-minded. If I can't see the boys or their doctors, I can see the girls. I spoke to them briefly at the scene; they weren't even transported by ambulance."

The doctor crossed his own arms over his chest, straddling his legs slightly. "Granted. They _were_ transported to this hospital by police vehicle, however, and are both undergoing examination at this time." He narrowed his eyes, mimicking Alan. "If I'm not to regard you as feeble-minded, may I assume that _'stubborn ass'_ is an accurate description?"

Alan's eyes widened in shock; then narrowed again. "You have no idea," he promised.

The doctor didn't as much as flinch. "Neither do you, sir. Neither do you."

Alan processed that for a moment, until an idea occurred to him. "If I allow you to proceed with your tests," he negotiated, "will you be my advocate with all the other doctors and medical personnel, so that I get all the information on everyone as soon as possible? Something tells me you don't get the run-around very much."

A small smile tugged at the corner of the physician's mouth. "That would be correct," he affirmed. "I'm not just a doctor; I play one on TV."

Alan smiled in recognition. "_That's _where I've seen you! You're that doctor on the local news, the question-and-answer guy! Dr. Shapiro, right? I watch you every chance I get; weren't you promoted or something recently?"

Dr. Shapiro inclined his head slightly in agreement. "Or something. The hospital is currently searching for a new medical Chief of Staff - I'm the Interim Director. These people all work for me. At the moment."

Alan's smile widened. "My offer is on the table."

The doctor allowed his own smile to blossom. "I accept. Nothing I enjoy more than showing up on the weekend and scaring the hell out of everybody."

**…...**

LAPD Sergeant Antonio Scarpelli tilted the chauffer's hat low over his eyes. The decision compromised his vision, but he'd have to trust the FBI guys behind him – and his own partner, stationed in a dark doorway – to watch the streets. He needed to convince Tuttle that he was Arroyo; at least long enough for Tuttle to approach the Maserati – and maybe even get inside.

He was a little worried that Tuttle had already figured out the ruse and slipped through the net again; it had been almost an hour since Alan Eppes called Agent Sinclair. Arroyo, Tuttle's driver, had been apprehended near their meeting place no more than five minutes after that; Scarpelli and his partner, Joe Meese, had been at the warehouse and were quickly pressed into service. Still, by the time they met up with Arroyo and the Maserati, dressed Scarpelli in Arroyo's clothes — sending Tuttle's chauffeur off to Parker Center in nothing more than his boxers and a blanket — and finalized their plans, it had been well over half an hour since Eppes had overheard Tuttle's conversation. Scarpelli hadn't pulled the Maserati to the curb at 5th and Davis until 45 minutes into the hour that Tuttle had specified. Scarpelli glanced at the clock in the vehicle's console; he had been sitting here for almost 10 minutes; maybe Tuttle had gotten to the meet location before they had, and had gotten a good look at Scarpelli's face as he eased the car over to the curb.

Time continued to pass — as did at least a dozen pedestrians. Some of them looked at the fancy sports car in admiration, but most just walked rapidly past. An hour and twenty minutes after Eppes' call to Sinclair, Scarpelli began to wonder if the agents intended to make him sit here all night. He was sure that Tuttle had escaped again; hell, maybe he had even known that the old man was listening to his conversation, and had set them all up, even his own chauffeur. While they were all sitting here, Tuttle was probably catching the first international flight out of LAX. He began to wonder if the Bureau would be paying him for this overtime, or if LAPD would; then he began to fantasize about how he would spend the windfall.

Scarpelli was wishing for coffee when the driver's door of the Maserati was suddenly yanked open, startling him out of his reverie. Automatically, he started to look up, barely managing to stop himself before he gave himself away.

Not that it mattered. A strong hand gripped his upper left arm and started pulling him toward the street. "Unbuckle the damn seatbelt and get the hell out of the car," he heard. "Take a cab and head home. If anyone asks, you were there the whole time – you weren't working tonight."

Scarpelli hesitated. He didn't want to speak; Tuttle would know Arroyo's voice. He didn't want to get out of the Maserati, either. Should he just shoot the guy where he stood? Would that qualify as a good shoot, a self-defense use of weapon? His right hand left the steering wheel and moved toward the gun holstered under his suit jacket.

At the same moment, Tuttle leaned into the vehicle and unbuckled Scarpelli's seat belt for him. "Hurry up!" Tuttle demanded, backing out of the car and pulling on Scarpelli's left arm again. "I've got to make a stop on the way to the airstrip and pick up my pilot, and this car only has two seats! I don't need you to drive me, you idiot! MOVE!" Scarpelli, his mind still racing, allowed Tuttle to pull him out of the car. As soon as he gained his feet, he decided, he would make the arrest. Climbing out of the car, he turned and faced Tuttle, and began reaching for his weapon and his cuffs – but knew in a flash that his cover had been blown – and it was too late. Tuttle's eyes had widened; apparently he had realized that Scarpelli wasn't his driver, and he had gone for a gun as Scarpelli was turning. Tuttle had the jump on the draw by only a split second, but it was enough. His pistol was out, and aiming at Scarpelli's gut, even as Scarpelli's hand closed on the butt of his own weapon.

The report sounded louder than Scarpelli expected, but the expected pain in his abdomen was less. It felt more like fist than a bullet, and oddly didn't hurt that much, but Scarpelli's knees gave way at the impact, and Tuttle pushed him aside onto the pavement and jumped in the car. At first he thought the bullet had hit him in the vest, but as he groped for his gut he felt wetness – the bullet had gone underneath the vest_. Damn._ As the pain and shock began to spiral, Scarpelli had the dim perception of two FBI agents running toward them, with his partner sprinting from the doorway to join them – then saw the black FBI agent gesture and heard him shout something. There was a sound of screeching tires in his ear as the Maserati burned rubber, and then Scarpelli saw the agents reverse course, and run back for their vehicle, as they waved his partner onward. Meese dropped to his knees beside him, panting, his cell phone at his ear. "Hang in there, Tony," he breathed, and then he broke off and barked into his cell, "Officer down, 5th and Davis! Need a bus, now! Suspect fleeing the scene in a red Maserati, federal agents in pursuit, heading east on 5th! Hurry up with that bus!"

**…...**

Colby slumped as low in his seat as he could, and still see out the front windshield. "Shit," he breathed. "Why's he going for the driver's door?"

David, also slumped low in his seat, let his fingers rest on the door handle. "We've gotta take him before he makes Scarpelli," he answered urgently.

Granger nodded and started to reach for his own door, then stopped when he felt David's restraining hand on his arm. "Wait; I think he's made him already. He's got his hands on Scarpelli."

Colby looked through the windshield again, just in time to see Tuttle lean into the Maserati and pull Scarpelli out of it. "Oh, fuck. Gun. He's gonna kill him!" The report sounded even as he spoke, and then they were out of the car, and running toward the Maserati. Tuttle jumped inside, ignoring David's call to halt, and the car was peeling out of its spot at the curb almost before Scarpelli had slumped to the pavement.

Colby caught a peripheral glimpse of Scarpelli's partner, Joe Meese, coming from his position in the doorway, and David waved him on toward Scarpelli, yelling, "Take care of your partner, and call this in! We're going after him!" They abruptly changed course and charged back for the vehicle, and as they threw themselves into it, Colby could see the Maserati, already two blocks ahead.

David cranked the ignition and car surged to life. "Call it in; have all units hang back, but get eyes in the sky so we don't lose him. Let's see what else this asshole has for us."

**…...**

End, Chapter 25


	26. Mea Culpa

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 26: Mea Culpa**

**…**

Robin watched the doctor and the nurse depart, and then rose stiffly from the examining room table in the ER bay, stripped off the hospital gown, and dressed, her nose wrinkling as she donned the same clothes she had worn for the past - how many days? Three? Four? She'd lost track.

The time in captivity, the insufficient food, water, and sleep, and then the final horrifying assault and subsequent gun battle had put her into a state of semi-shock, and it had persisted all the way to the hospital, and part way into her exam. Now, however, the stupor was wearing off, and there was only one thing on her mind – to find out how the others were – Amita, and Charlie, and most of all, Don.

She pushed through the stiffness and tried to walk normally as she strode out of the exam room with her exit paperwork. She didn't have to go far to find Amita – Robin rounded a corner, and there she was, emerging from her own exam bay. Their eyes met, and Robin felt the exchange of power. Immediately after Robin's attack and all the way to the hospital, Amita had been the strong one, offering encouragement and a comforting shoulder. Now, however, just as Robin was collecting herself, she could see that Amita was on the verge of crumbling; her dark eyes were glistening with tears and filled with fear. Not so much for herself, Robin knew, but for Charlie.

"C'mon," Robin said, as if Amita had spoken. "Let's go find them." She put her arm around Amita's shoulders to gently turn her toward the exit, and guided her down the hall.

**…**

"Okay, turn him," instructed Pete Wilcox, and studied the patient as the ER staff gently turned him onto his back. Eppes – young guy. Slight, probably only 140 pounds – or less. Looked a little on the thin side. The stubble on his face and his dark curly hair stood out in stark relief against disturbingly pale skin. "Let's finish stitching him." The gunshot wound was a nasty one, entering just above the collarbone on his right side, traveling through the muscle and skin at the top and back of his shoulder, and exiting through the skin on the back side of the shoulder, a couple of inches above the shoulder blade. It had taken a chip off the collarbone and had come dangerously close to the subclavian artery and the median nerve, but had touched neither. There was a fair amount of blood loss from a damaged smaller artery that branched off from the subclavian, but not enough to account for the young man's loss of consciousness. Pete had already stitched up the small arterial bleed and a larger exit wound on the back side of the shoulder, and as he worked on the front, his mind went on to the next step – X-rays, particularly of the head. The emergency technician that had brought him said that he'd been told that the patient, Eppes, had been flung against a wall after being shot. Could be a concussion…

Pete straightened a little self-consciously as the attending ER physician, Parish, came into the room, carrying a clipboard. As a second-year resident, Pete was pretty sure of himself, but still got a little anxious when he was being observed by one of the staff. "GSW to the shoulder," he intoned to Dr. Parish. _'Parish – bad name for a doctor,'_ Pete thought to himself distractedly, _'it would sound like 'perish' to a patient…,' _He shook himself mentally and continued. "Exit wound a couple of inches above the lower edge of the shoulder blade. Some damage to a small secondary artery off the subclavian _-," which he had repaired first to minimize the bleeding – _"but no apparent damage to the subclavian artery or median nerve -," _guy was pretty lucky, all in all,_ "and minor damage to the clavicle, resulting in a small bone chip, which I removed." He worked as he talked, stitching up the entry wound at the front of the shoulder. "Patient is still unconscious, and I am sending him for head X-rays as soon as we're done here. There was a report that he was flung against a wall – I suspect a possible concussion, but needed to deal with the bleeding first." He stepped back, satisfied with himself, and allowed Parish a closer look – _'but he won't find anything; I have this one pegged…' _He watched as Parish place a stethoscope on the young man's chest – _'old school – why does he bother with that, when the guy is hooked up to the monitors?'_ – and then glanced at those monitors himself, and felt a start of apprehension. Blood oxygen was way low – lower than what the blood loss would account for – unless there was blood loss somewhere else – had he missed something? Pulse was rapid, too, BP low, and breathing was rapid and shallow – something else was wrong here, but what?

Parish was frowning as he stepped back from the patient and took the stethoscope from his ears. "I hear rattling sounds in the lungs. Sounds like fluid." He glanced at Pete. "I'd get him on some oxygen, if I were you."

Pete's mind raced, even as he made a future reference to himself to pay more attention to old technology – namely stethoscopes. "Of course," he stammered as a nurse placed an oxygen mask over the patient's face. '_Damn it – always look at vitals first_,' Pete thought to himself. "The bullet couldn't have nicked the top lobe of the lung," he said, trying not to sound defensive. "It went in over the top of the clavicle, and exited through skin. If it had gone underneath the collarbone, he'd be dead – there'd be no way it would have missed the subclavian artery. And it would have hit the artery before it hit lung."

Parish pursed his lips, and gave Pete an appraising glance. "Relax, I agree with you. And you were right to deal with bleeding before anything else. There's something else going on here, though."

Pete did relax a little at that, and nodded. "I agree. His oxygen levels are way down and his breathing is shallow. Fluid in the lungs would explain that. We need to get him to X-ray as soon as possible – maybe when he was flung against the wall, he sustained not only a concussion, but damage to his rib cage – he may have internal bleeding."

Parish nodded, as Pete motioned an orderly toward the gurney. "That's one possibility, and you're right to check it out quickly. You'll want a crash cart on hand in radiology, and you'll need to make provisions for an emergency chest tube, if that's the case. His temperature is up, however – granted, that could be a physiological response to internal injury, but also presents the possibility of infection. He may not have an internal injury – he may have pneumonia."

Pete nodded, flinching a little internally as he glanced toward the monitor. He'd missed that, too. Yep, temperature – wow – was 104. He stepped back to let the orderly push the gurney through, and just then, the young man's eyes flickered open. Eppes raised a hand aimlessly, then a look of panic began to break through the grogginess, and he started to try to push himself up, a moan escaping as the movement involved his injured shoulder. Pete stepped forward, stopping the gurney progress, and laid a gentle hand on Eppes' chest. It took very little force to push the man back down; he was obviously extremely weak. Dark eyes connected with Pete's, and the patient mumbled under the oxygen mask, something that sounded like "Ameeta," or maybe "a meeting," then "Don."

"Mr. Eppes, please don't try to talk," said Pete gently. "You had a gunshot wound to the shoulder, which we have repaired, and we're taking you for some X-rays now."

Parish was glancing at his clipboard at a copy of the ER admission report, and stepped forward. "He was brought in with his brother, Don, and two others," he murmured in an aside to Pete, and then spoke to the patient. "Your brother is okay, Mr. Eppes – they're working on him now – he is in good hands. And -," he referred to his clipboard, "Amita is also being checked out, she is just around the corner, but she came in under her own power. Just take it easy; you'll see them soon enough." At his words, the young man did appear to relax and sank back into his pillow, although a slight worried pucker remained between his eyebrows. He shuddered a little – chills from the fever, no doubt – and a nurse pulled up his blanket a little as the gurney moved past her.

Pete glanced at his attending physician – Parish had actually just violated patient privacy laws by telling the man about the other patients – but said nothing, just waved the gurney out.

Parish fell into step beside him, murmuring, "Sometimes, you need to do what is right for the patient. I didn't give him too much information – just enough to calm him down." He looked at Pete sternly. "Not that I would recommend it, you understand."

Pete grinned softly and nodded. "I understand, Doctor."

Parish nodded. "Nice job with the GSW. Mind if I tag along on this one?"

"Not at all," said Pete. In spite of his chagrin at missing the vital signs, Parish's compliment and the fact that he had violated policy himself seemed to put them on a level of sorts – more like fellow doctors than doctor and second-year resident. They strode down the hallway, following the patient, and Pete frowned as he noted that Eppes' eyes were closed – he was apparently out cold again.

**…**

Colby rebounded off the passenger side door, and absently reached for his seat belt as he bounced in his seat, his eyes boring through the windshield. David was driving like a man possessed, lights flashing, siren wailing, weaving in and out of traffic as they tried to keep a visual on the red Maserati in front of them. They were headed down Garvey Avenue, and up ahead, they saw the Maserati hang a hard right on Garfield.

"Damn it," David swore, "he's headed up Garfield to the 10. If he gets on the highway, we'll have a hard time keeping up with him."

They surged around a delivery truck, nearly back-ending a clueless driver in front of the truck who, in spite of the wailing sirens, had decided to suddenly pull into their lane. He wisely changed his mind at the last moment, but David still had to pull around him as he scooted back into the right lane. David's driving was hair-raising, but Colby ignored the jerking and swerving, the frightening speed. His eyes, like David's, were glued to the red sports car three blocks ahead of them. The small, fast Maserati was widening the gap between them; it was having more success at weaving in and out of traffic. It definitely had the edge in a chase, with its sports suspension, small size, and 4.7 liter V8 engine. There was no doubt Tuttle would make the highway, now just a block away. Colby called it in on the radio, just as the entrance ramp pulled into view and Tuttle took the westbound lane. "Suspect now heading west on I-10 via the Garfield ramp – we could use some backup here."

The static-laden voice of a chopper cop came over the line. "_Roger that. We've got a visual from the air._"

"We've got a bird," said Colby. He kept the line open, and punched up the volume so that David could hear the exchange from the chopper and LAPD central dispatch.

"Thank God," muttered David, his jaw as tight as his hands on the wheel. "I was losing him." The car flew up the entrance ramp, and Colby peered anxiously forward as they gained the highway. It was dark, but the streetlights lining the highway gave enough illumination to pick out color, and he spotted the red flash of the Maserati up ahead. There was a lot of traffic on the highway, fortunately for them; it was slowing Tuttle down, and keeping him within sight. Within minutes, they blew past highway 710 and UCLA, and then dispatch came on the line.

"_We have units converging at exit 19A to assist. We have a report from officer Meese that the suspect may be heading for an airport."_

"If he's heading for LAX, he'll probably head south down I-5," David barked back. "Get your units heading south on I-5!"

Colby squinted. The traffic had cleared a bit and they were dropping behind, losing sight, the Maserati was just a glimpse in the distance, and then… gone. David pressed harder on the pedal, but there was enough traffic to keep him from an all-out run, and although Colby's eyes were trained like lasers ahead of them, the Maserati did not re-appear. "We lost visual," he told dispatch. "We need to rely on the bird."

"_I've got him_," said the air patrolman. "_He's pulling ahead of you – heading toward I-5. You're not too far back – just keep going_." The lights and sirens were registering on some of the drivers; the left lane was clearing and David pulled into it. He could stay there, Colby knew, until he hit I-5; the exit to I-5 south was on the left – David wouldn't have to work his way back through four lanes of traffic to exit on the right. It was a small break; maybe they'd make up some ground. They flashed passed exit 20A, and Colby saw the sign for the next two exits; exit 19C, Marengo Avenue, and 19A, I-5 South, listed right below.

"_Whoa!_" came the air patrolman's voice. "_Get right, get right! He just got off at 19C – Marengo Avenue exit!"_

David muttered an expletive – Colby was sure he had heard more swear words out of him that night than he had in all their years as partners – and jerked right into the adjacent lane, but they were stuck there, restricted from moving into the next lane by a gray Impala. Colby jabbed a finger at the startled driver, motioning him to get over, and the driver slowed to let them in, but it was too late. They were caught up in the flow of traffic and swept by the exit. They were now in a center lane, and David barked at the radio, "Which way is he going?"

"_North up Marengo._"

David turned hard the wheel, and pulled over one more lane to the right. "We're getting off on I-5, heading north," he said, and moments later they were shooting down the off ramp onto I-5 north – and all of their backup was headed south.

"_Nice guess_," said the air patrolman. "_He's getting back on I-5 north ahead of you. That was just a diversion on his part. I'll bet he thinks he's lost you_."

"The question is," muttered David, too low for dispatch to hear, "why is he headed north? He must not be flying out of LAX. Text Liz; have her find out what airports are up north of the city." In a louder voice, he said, "Dispatch, let your units know our location and get them turned around, but keep them back behind us. We're going to drop back and stay just out of sight. If he thinks he's lost us, maybe he'll slow down. The bird can keep us updated on where he's going."

He turned off the lights and the siren, and eased his way over into the left lane. They were moving at a more reasonable rate of speed now, and Colby settled back in his seat. Nothing to do now but hang back and wait until Tuttle got off the highway, where they could corner him – without dragging innocent citizens into a dangerous highway interception. David was making a smart decision – but every nerve in Colby's body was screaming for them to charge ahead. He bit back on his impatience and tried to satisfy himself with visions of planting a fist in Tuttle's face, when they finally caught him.

**…**

Don Eppes grimaced as the ER doc jabbed a needle filled with topical anesthetic into his thigh in preparation for stitching the oozing wound that started there and wrapped around toward his hip. It was an in-and-out and hadn't hit bone, which was good, Don knew, but the bad news was that it had plowed through some quadriceps on its way. It meant therapy at a minimum, but he pushed that thought to the back of his mind. He had bigger things to worry about.

Worry wasn't the word. He was afraid, hell, he was panicked. He honestly never remembered feeling so fearful, so anxious – not the way he felt now. Robin and her bruised face floated into his mind – he was worried about her, although she had walked out next to him as they rolled him off to the ambulance on his gurney. She seemed to be moving all right under her own power, but who knew what she had gone through? And Charlie… Charlie had been shot – he could be dying – and Don was the one who had shot him. He closed his eyes, and the scene flashed before him again – his gun going off just as Charlie leapt on the man's back, the sickening jerk of Charlie's upper body as the bullet connected. He hadn't seen exactly where the wound was – Charlie's dark jacket had made that impossible, but Don knew that it had exited out the back, because when Charlie had hit the wall, his back had left a smear of blood on it as he slid to the floor. And blood – there was so much of it, pooling around him, so much on the floor when they lifted him. Don had a flash of memory - a vision of the limp, lifeless form being quickly and gently lifted onto a gurney by the medics, more blood spattering as they moved, and a surge of nausea welled up inside him.

He pushed up on his elbows, ignoring the sting from the graze on his upper arm and the growl from the ER doctor, who was trying to stitch his leg. "Lay down, please," he growled, the politeness of the request belied by the frustration in his voice. "Please keep still."

"I need to get some information about my brother," Don pleaded, easing back down from his elbows. "If you aren't going to give it to me, I'll go find it myself."

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, apparently." A dry voice came from the doorway, and Don shifted his eyes to see another doctor easing into the room. He looked vaguely familiar, or maybe he simply reminded Don of someone.

The ER doctor glanced toward the door and kept working, but his voice contained new respect, as he nodded and said briskly, "Doctor Shapiro."

Shapiro nodded back, his eyes fixed appraisingly on Don. "Your father has been asking some of the same questions. I told him I'd find out his boys were. It sounds like one of them, at least, is as intractable and ornery as he is."

"My dad? He's here?" Don blinked.

Shapiro nodded. "Yes. A little worse for wear – it looks like you and he may be gimping around together for a while. He's got a busted knee, a possible mild concussion and a fractured rib. None of which seem to be slowing him down much. The only way I could keep him in his bed was to promise to find out what I could about you."

"What?" Don stared at him, bewildered, and rubbed his eyes. His head was spinning. His father was just supposed to be coming home from the airport. What had happened? Had he been in an accident?

Shapiro raised his eyebrows. "I'm surprised you didn't know – I was given to understand all of you were brought in from the same location."

"What?" Don said again, his head snapping up. "The same location? How did he get there? He was supposed to be heading home from the airport!" His expression changed. "You said you were finding out about his boys – what about my brother – Charlie – Charlie Eppes?"

Shapiro regarded him with interest, as if he were a new and unknown species. "You both really are on the same wavelength, aren't you? Your brother is here and is being worked on in a bay down the hall – that's all I know right now. I haven't been to see him yet – although, if he's anything like the rest of the family, I'm beginning to wonder if I should go. Every time I visit one of you, I get another assignment." He smiled, encouragingly, and Don knew he was trying to defuse the obvious tension, but Shapiro couldn't know that trying to lighten the mood was an impossible task. Even the news of his father's injuries paled in comparison to what had happened at the warehouse – and what might happen yet.

"I need to see my brother," Don rasped, and he could hear the fear and despair in his own voice. The same voice whispered in his head, "_Before it's too late…_"

Shapiro smiled and shook his head. "That's not possible, right now, Agent. And I can tell you for certain that he's getting the best of care – but I will check on him for you, and make sure everything possible is being done for him. After all, I promised your father." His smile faded as he took in the look on Don's face. "Is there something I should know?"

Don shook his head and closed his eyes, trying to fight back the sudden moisture in them. "He was shot – I don't know how bad it is. He was unconscious – there was a lot of blood." He opened his eyes, and they bore into Shapiro's. "No matter what, no matter how bad – I have to know."

Shapiro hesitated, and Don knew he was trying to frame his response. He suspected that the doctor didn't want to promise anything – he already probably thought Don was on the verge of some kind of breakdown, and didn't want to exacerbate the situation with bad news. Don kept his eyes riveted on Shapiro's, and spoke through clenched teeth. "I have to know – because I'm the one who shot him."

**…**

End, Chapter 26


	27. The Long and Winding Road

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 27: The Long and Winding Road**

**…**

They found Charlie first.

Amita had let Robin guide her down the ER hallway, grateful to relinquish her role as protector. Back in the warehouse, her anger at Tuttle and his men had given her the mental fortitude to provide a support for Robin after her friend's brutal assault, but what had happened next had shaken Amita to her foundations. The thrill of hope she had felt when Don appeared had been abruptly dashed when Paully had come in just behind him – and the terrifying exchange of gunfire had made her cower helplessly next to Robin. She still had control over her faculties, however, until that unthinkable moment seconds later – the moment that Charlie was shot.

She had seen him at the doorway just before he leapt; Charlie had paused for the briefest of seconds as he took in what was happening; his brother injured and on the floor, and a man with a gun standing over him. Unarmed, Charlie had done the only thing he could – he jumped for the man, trying to throw off his aim. Amita had just time to catch her breath at the sight of him when Don fired; his view of his brother blocked by Paully until the split second that Charlie leapt on top of him. The trigger pull and the leap happened simultaneously, and Don was not to blame; Amita was sure of it – but that was no consolation. Not then, as Charlie, heaved aside by Paully, slid bleeding and unconscious down the wall, and not now, as they rounded a corner and saw the prone figure on the gurney.

His face was partially obscured by an oxygen mask, but there was no mistaking the dark curly head, and Amita uttered an exclamation and darted forward. "Charlie!"

As she reached his side, a man stepped forward and intercepted her – not physically, but he placed his body between her and the gurney. "Please, ma'am, can you step back? We need to get him to X-ray." He pointed down a hallway. "There is a waiting room right outside those doors."

Amita felt her heart sink. Her gaze was fixed on Charlie, but his eyes were closed. He was obviously – and alarmingly – still unconscious. She raised her eyes to the man in front of her – a doctor by the looks of him – and said, "Please – tell us – how – how is he? Why is he -?" Her words were halting, awkward. What she really wanted to know was – how bad is it? – and somehow, she couldn't say the words.

The doctor smiled kindly, but his eyes didn't lie – Amita could see the concern there. He flicked a look toward another doctor behind him, and then toward Robin, and said, "We will release information as soon as we can. Please, if you'll stand aside, we need to get him to radiology."

Amita felt suddenly mortified – they were trying to treat Charlie, and she was standing in the way. She nearly jumped aside, and then jumped again as Robin laid a gentle hand on her trembling arm, but her gaze never left Charlie. She watched as they wheeled him down the hall, not moving until they rounded another corner and disappeared from sight. Her mind and body seemed frozen; all she could think about were the wasted weeks at Lucerne – weeks she could have spent with Charlie. She had let him dangle, waiting for her, for longer than most men would have tolerated, and still he had come running when she needed him…

"Come on," said Robin gently. "Let's find Alan or Don. We'll have a better chance of finding out something – they'll release details to family first." She gave Amita's arm an encouraging tug, and Amita swallowed the lump in her throat, and followed her blindly down the hall.

**…**

J. Everett Tuttle shot a glance in his rearview mirror and took a breath, but didn't relax his grip on the steering wheel. The black sedan with the two FBI agents that had been tailing him was nowhere in sight, but Tuttle felt little relief. He had just committed the cardinal sin in his own book – he had perpetrated a crime in front of witnesses – had shot a cop, no less, in front of at least two federal agents. He had eluded the law during his long criminal career by following that caveat – never leave a trail, never leave a witness, make someone else do one's dirty work - and tonight he had blown it; first at the warehouse, then by attacking Alan Eppes, and finally, by shooting a cop and fleeing the scene. Each incident had been an escalating act of desperation, driven by increasingly bad circumstances. He was now certainly a wanted criminal, with no hope of weaseling out of the situation, no hope of pinning his crimes on another as he had done so many times in the past. He had no choice but to flee the country, and quickly. He'd done that before, as a precaution, but this time, the exile would be permanent.

The thought incensed him – no one, not even the law, told him what to do – and he pounded his palm on the leather-bound steering wheel. Damn the Eppes brothers – both of them. He'd almost been rid of them, and instead, they had done what no one else had ever been able to do. They had him - if not in custody, then at least on the run. On the run, and never to return to his home country, to his home turf, to the place where he held the most power. He would be forced to retire earlier than he planned. Oh, the money in his offshore bank accounts would make it bearable, but retiring meant giving up the things that mattered more to him than money – and those were power, and respect. The Eppes brothers were forcing him into that situation against his will, and the thought made him furious.

Not furious enough to blow it again, however. Three times in one night was enough. No, he would get to the airport, get out of the country to someplace safe from extradition, hide out and lick his wounds. There might even be a way of exacting a final revenge, someday, but now was not the time for it. Now was the time to be smart.

And he _was_ smart. He took the exit for I-101 West, glancing behind him once more, cursing the nervous thrill that ran up his spine, until he saw that he had no pursuers. No black sedan, no police. He would pick up his pilot, who was waiting for him at a gas station just off I-101 in North Hollywood, and they would then be just minutes from the Burbank Airport, where Tuttle had a small private jet. Not registered in his name, of course, but his just the same. His pilot, Mason, had made a career out of flying questionable and clandestine missions for several wealthy clients, and a last-minute call at night was unusual, but not unheard-of. It meant big bucks, and Mason was more than happy to agree when Tuttle called. They had actually changed plans en route via cell phone – the chase had prompted that. Instead of picking Mason up at his home, Tuttle was trying to shave off some time by having him meet him at a gas station a little closer to the airport than Mason's house. He would dump the Maserati at the gas station, and they would take Mason's car to the airport. Two more exits; and Tuttle would be there.

Two more exits came and went with no sign of the sedan, and Tuttle pulled off at the highway with a sigh of relief. He had picked this meeting place for a reason - he was familiar with the area; the next entrance ramp off the highway let off on Van Nuys, and from there, it was just a short jaunt down Ventura to Mulholland. Mulholland Drive was legendary. It twisted for miles in the Hollywood Hills, and along its length were homes of movie stars, of the rich and famous. Tuttle knew more than one homeowner there; in fact he had lived there himself for a while, and he had driven that length of road many times – and it was just a short distance away. If he had run into police on the way to the gas station; Mulholland was where he would have gone to shake them. His familiarity with the road and the Maserati's sports suspension on the curves would have given him a decided advantage over the bigger police cruisers – and if he couldn't quite lose the cops, he could at least get far enough ahead that he might be able to veer off into one of the long driveways, and perhaps even drop his car with a friend and sneak out in another vehicle. Jerry Shelstein, his lawyer, lived off Mulholland – the bastard had bought a beautiful house with sweeping views, much of it with Tuttle's money. Shelstein owed him.

The gas station was a just quarter mile down the road, and within eyeshot of the highway exit ramp. Tuttle parked the car next to the small building that housed the cashiers and a convenience store, his sharp gaze darting around the lot, his heart rate ratcheting up as he saw no sign of Mason. Cursing, he grabbed his cell phone and jabbed at a button. "Where in the hell are you?" he spat into the phone.

"_Right behind you_," came Mason's voice, cheerful and unconcerned. "_I'm just pulling in now_." Tuttle turned, and sure enough, he could see Mason pulling into the gas station in his silver Lexus. Mason started to say something else, but Tuttle didn't hear it. He was staring toward the highway, because speeding down the off ramp towards the gas station was a black sedan.

…

They found Alan next.

Robin and Amita had ignored the doors to the waiting room that had been pointed out by Charlie's doctor, and had instead proceeded down the ER hallway. They rounded another corner just in time to catch a glimpse of Nikki heading into an exam room, and hustled down the hall after her. Robin's heart beat a bit faster; she was sure she was about to see Don, and felt a slight sinking sensation when, upon reaching the doorway, she looked in and saw that it was Alan instead. Part of the twinge in her heart was due to pity – Alan looked a mess; his hair unruly, bruises and scrapes on his visible skin; and a big ice pack on his knee, which had been immobilized in a brace. Even worse, however, was the expression on his face. He had apparently asked Nikki something just before Robin and Amita had walked in, and she was hesitating. Alan's eyes were probing hers, and she finally answered reluctantly. "Yes, Alan, it's true – they both have gunshot wounds. Don was conscious when he left the scene, but Charlie wasn't. I don't know much more than that – I haven't seen either of them here at the hospital."

Alan seemed to sag, and he turned his eyes on Robin and Amita. "Thank God," he said at the sight of them, his voice hoarse with emotion. His eyes searched their faces, and lingered on the bruise on Robin's cheek. "Are you all right?"

Amita spoke up for the first time since she'd left Charlie. "We're okay," she said softly. "We were released already. Alan, what happened?"

A flash of satisfaction broke the lines of worry in his face. "I was uh-," he glanced guiltily at Nikki "– in the area, never mind how, and I ran into our friend Mr. Tuttle. We had a little scuffle; he did some damage, but I did more – I overheard him talking on his cell phone after he thought I was out for the count, and I got information on where he was going." His smirk faded, and worry crept back into his eyes. "You were there," he said to them. "What happened to Don and Charlie? Do you know anything?"

It was then, seeing Alan's face; that the full implication of what had happened hit Robin. It was horrible that Charlie had been shot, to be sure, and they were all deeply concerned for him, but what she hadn't considered in the terror of the last few hours and the rush to the hospital was the mental and psychological effects of the accident – not only on Alan, but on Don. And if Charlie didn't make it… "_Dear God,"_ she whispered to herself, as she looked from Amita's tortured face to Alan's. _"Charlie has to make it."_

Out loud, she said, "Yes, we were there. Alan, we just saw Charlie in the hallway. They were taking him for X-rays. There was a whole staff with him – it looked like there were at least two doctors in the group. He's getting the best of care." She left out the fact that he'd been obviously unconscious, and on oxygen. She also left out the fact that he had been shot by his brother – she didn't have the courage to bring it up. She wasn't even sure if Nikki knew.

At that, Alan took a deep breath, and seemed to straighten just a bit. "Okay." And then just a little more softly, as if he were giving himself a pep talk, "Okay." He looked at her expectantly. "And Don?"

"We haven't seen him yet," admitted Robin. "We've been trying to find him." At Alan's stricken look, she hastened to add, "Like Nikki said, he was conscious, and talking when they put him in the ambulance. It looked to me like he had been hit in the upper leg and the upper arm." She looked at Amita, and gently squeezed her arm. "Why don't you stay here with Alan and Nikki, and I'll see if I can find Don?"

Nikki nodded her approval. "I know it's not a good time," she said to Alan, "but I need to question you again about Tuttle; see if there was anything else you might remember about his conversation, and where he might be going."

"Going!" exclaimed Alan. "After all of that – and the information I gave them about meeting his driver – they missed him?"

Nikki's face twisted in chagrin. "Yes. Colby and David are in pursuit. They're tracking him by air, but it would help a great deal to know where he was heading." She looked at Amita. "You might be able to help, also – maybe you heard Tuttle or his men making contingency plans?" She gave a nod of dismissal to Robin, with a look of understanding in her eyes. "Go ahead, Ms. Brooks. We'll be fine here." Robin turned, but stopped as Nikki said, "Wait."

She turned back around, to see Nikki slipping out of jacket, and then holding it out to her. "Put this on."

Robin glanced down; flushing as she suddenly realized that she was still clutching the front of her torn blouse to hold it closed. She took the jacket, nodded with gratitude at Nikki, and slipped out the door.

**…**

Jerry Shelstein took a pull on his cigarette, held it for a moment, and then exhaled and took a sip of his wine – a very nice, expensive Bordeaux – the perfect companions with which to savor the night. He stood on his terrace, admiring the view and the moonlight, away from the light spilling from the open double doors of the ballroom, and the murmurs of his guests behind him. The dinner party was small by design, but well-attended; his wealthy patrons were a tight-knit crowd, and all of them were rich and powerful.

Yes, it was a perfect night, and there was only one thing missing – ah, there she was. His current lover, Tasha, stepped out onto the terrace, her voluptuous figure encased in a form-fitting white beaded gown that left little to the imagination. She stood for a moment, illuminated by the moonlight. She was magnificent physically, and knew how to make a head-turning entrance. She had brains too, so he hadn't tired of her as quickly as some of the others. Unfortunately, she also had a conscience, so he doubted he would let her stay around. Attend one too many parties, stick around too long, and one was bound hear things – things that were better left in confidence. He would probably have to let her go soon – but in the meantime, she made quite a trophy companion on his arm.

She sauntered across the terrace, smiling teasingly, a wine glass of her own cradled in her hand. "There you are. Tired of your guests already?" She lifted her glass to his, clinked, and then drank, still smiling, eyeing him over the rim. "Very nice party, Mr. Shelstein," she murmured. "I would say it was a roaring success."

An unpleasant little thought niggled at his brain, and he glanced at his guests, visible through the doors, and wondered what she had heard in there to make her think it such a success. He might have to dump her sooner than he had thought, but he pushed the thought back, smiled back and tipped his glass to her. Not tonight – not when he could have another glorious night in his over-sized bed with her. "Thank you, my dear," he said, with mock formality, and then winked at her. "I think you may be the main attraction, however. Sam Sperling came over and asked me for your name and phone number. He said he might have a role for you in a movie he's casting. I told him I would ask you for permission to give them to him."

Her eyes widened slightly, but to her credit, she didn't squeal or gush, even though he knew she'd worked for two long years to find a decent role in a movie. "Really? You were such a gentleman to ask me first -," her teasing grin deepened wickedly, "but then, who said I liked a gentleman?" She opened her mouth to say something else, but then her eyes trailed over his shoulder, and her eyebrows rose.

He turned to see what had captured her attention. His house was on one of the highest points on Mulholland, and from there they could see a long stretch of road winding through the wooded hills, and a red car racing far too fast around the curves. There were street lights along that section of road because of the winding bends and steep drop-offs, and in the lights, even at that distance Jerry could see that the car was a red Maserati. He actually knew someone who owned one – J. Everett Tuttle, one of his former clients. Well, perhaps not quite a _former_ client, but they really had done no business together since Jerry had delivered a message for Tuttle to his man, Derek Mace, in prison. Jerry knew what was in the message, and wasn't surprised to hear a short time later that a man had been killed in the same prison – a man who had potentially damaging information on Tuttle. That little job was a bit too dirty, even for Jerry, and he hadn't been sorry when communication with Tuttle had trailed off. He surveyed the car with detached interest. It couldn't be Tuttle driving it; Tuttle knew these roads, and would know well that driving any vehicle at that speed along that stretch was pure craziness. He then saw a black sedan pull into view further down the road – it, too, was going very fast, but at a slightly more sane pace than the red Maserati. It had police lights flashing, and was obviously in pursuit, but it was losing ground.

His eyes were jerked back to the Maserati by the screech of tires, sharp even in the distance, and Tasha's sudden intake of breath. He caught sight of the red car again just in time to see it fly through a guardrail and sail into a deep gully. It seemed to fall forever, and there was sickening silence for a moment, then it plunged out of view into the trees. There was a crash, which sounded very loud to him, but was too distant to make itself heard by his party guests over the sound of the music inside – and then a fireball roared up through the trees.

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Tasha, horror-stricken. She swung wild eyes toward Jerry. "We should call 911!" She turned toward the house, but Jerry put a restraining hand on her arm. The last thing his clients would want would be cops crashing the party, looking for eyewitnesses to the accident.

"No," he said firmly, with a jerk of his head toward the road, where the sedan was braking, pulling up to where the guardrail had been breached. Two men got out of the vehicle, and began clambering down the slope. "The police are there already. Let them handle it."

She stared at him. "They could probably use some help – maybe they didn't get a chance to call an ambulance, or the fire department."

He shook his head. "Dispatch would record who made the 911 call, and then come here to find out what we witnessed. My guests wouldn't appreciate it – a bunch of cops stomping in and questioning them."

Her stare turned shocked and disbelieving. She jabbed a finger toward the accident site. "Someone could be burning to death – or hurt – those two cops could get hurt and not be able to call – and you're worried about your stuffy guests?"

His eyes narrowed. "They are more than guests – they are my clients. If they don't think I will protect them from unpleasantries like police questions, why would they think I would represent them well? Leave it alone – there are already cops on the scene." He didn't tell her that some of the people in that room wouldn't want to be seen with some of the others, especially by police.

"Unpleasantries!" she huffed, and he had the distinct impression that she was going to ignore him and go inside to make a call, when the faint sound of sirens wafted through the night air, followed shortly by flashing lights. Reinforcements were already arriving, and she glanced at the additional incoming police cars and then shrugged one shoulder angrily, and stalked into the house, giving him one more incredulous backward glance and shaking her head.

Jerry watched her go – it appeared that he would be rid of her sooner than he thought; he very probably had just scared her away. Pity it wasn't tomorrow morning instead of tonight, he thought, as a vision of his luxurious over-sized bed came to his head – unless he could sweet-talk her into it; maybe get her to forgive him, at least for the night. He shot a last, incurious look at the carnage below. Although the wreckage was mostly obscured by the trees, he could see that it was burning fiercely, and was glad to see a fire truck pulling into view. He didn't need his mansion threatened by an out-of-control brush fire. "No one could have survived that, anyway," he muttered to himself as he drained his wine, and followed Tasha into the house.

**…**

A few moments after leaving Don Eppes' exam room, Dr. Shapiro found Charlie Eppes in radiology, and Doctors Wilcox and Parish huddled around an X-ray, which Wilcox was holding against a light. Parish was a veteran, and accomplished at wearing the bland look of a doctor who had seen it all, and had honed his poker face to perfection. Even he looked concerned, however, and Wilcox was frowning. They looked up with identical looks of surprise at the sight of him. "Dr. Shapiro, can we help you?" asked Parish, in a tone that conveyed the unspoken, "_What are you doing here?_"

Shapiro reached for a film. "Mind if I take a look?" he asked. "I'm following up on a personal request from a patient." '_Make that patients, plural_,' he mentally corrected himself. He intended to get a report on Charlie Eppes and double back to Don Eppes first, and then to Alan, to get them both up to speed.

He glanced at his watch as he took the film. Nearly nine p.m. He worked late these days, trying to do his own job and that of interim director as well, but this stint was later than normal. Tonight, though, as tired as he was, he didn't mind – he had to admit, he was fascinated by the cases that had come into the ER that evening. Not that any of them presented a truly technical challenge – but the emotional and mental situation was unique, and he would be hard pressed to think of a more interesting circumstance – a major sting gone awry, a federal agent, his brother, and his father all involved, all wounded. He had already called home, and told his wife not to wait up for him. He looked at the X-ray, and paused.

He would have to retract that, he thought to himself – the part about the Eppes cases lacking technical challenge. Eppes senior and the agent had sustained serious but non-life-threatening injuries, and even the initial report of Charlie Eppes' gunshot wound, which Shapiro had received from an ER nurse, sounded somewhat routine for a busy emergency room in LA. His chest X-ray, however, was anything but mundane. Shapiro had never seen that much fluid in a person's lungs before – at least not a live person. He felt his heart drop – he had been sure he was going to be able to give Don Eppes good news after that initial report he had gotten from a nurse coming out of Charlie's room. '_The gunshot wound was serious, but it is repaired, and your brother is in no danger…_' He would now have to amend that statement. The fact was; the effects of the wound very well could be fatal; the blood loss could make it more difficult to combat the raging case of pneumonia that was almost certain to take this young man's life. He handed the X-ray back to Wilcox, and thought about the tortured look in the agent's eyes, when he had asked for news of his brother. He straightened. Well, now he had a technical challenge – to see that his hospital cured what appeared to be an incurable case of pneumonia, in a patient who had been weakened by injury and blood loss. Better get moving. "Looks like you need a pulmonary consult," he said. "Call in Forster and Perkins."

They both gaped at him; Shapiro knew what they were thinking. Call in not one, but two of the area's most esteemed lung specialists at this time of night, for a lost cause? "Sir," began Wilcox, but Shapiro cut him off as he turned for the door.

"I wouldn't waste time talking. If either Forster or Perkins give you any trouble, have them call me directly."

He strode out, closing the door behind him, and just stood there for a moment, gathering himself before he went to report to Don Eppes. For a moment, he second-guessed himself – what if there was more to this than met the eye? Should he really be giving information on Charlie Eppes' condition to the man who had just confessed to shooting him? He didn't know either of them – didn't know their history. Some brothers hated each other. He hesitated just for a moment, but then thought about the look of pain he had seen in the agent's eyes. No, this wasn't about hatred – quite the opposite. Somehow, that didn't make it any easier – because he dreaded telling him the truth. He straightened and strode off down the hallway, toward the ER bay where Don Eppes lay, waiting for news.

**…**

End, Chapter 27


	28. On The Brink

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 28: On the Brink**

**…**

David pulled the black sedan to a screeching halt next to the guard rail, just a few feet from the brink of the hill. The rail was broken; a hole torn straight through the metal ribbon, a couple of pits in the ground where the posts had been torn right out of the earth. They hadn't seen the Maserati go through the rail – it had been too far ahead of them, so for a second or two, he and Colby just stared, trying to assess what might have caused the hole – it could have been made previously, and the Maserati might even now be racing ahead of them up the curves. A muffled boom followed by shooting flames down in the ravine below the road suddenly upped the odds – either that explosion was the Maserati, or Tuttle had forced some poor soul off the road.

They didn't bother to speak; as soon as they saw the explosion they were out of the car, David cutting the engine as he went. They tore down the embankment, slipping on long grass, stumbling over rocks until they got as close as they could to the vehicle, which lay at the bottom of a ravine in the midst of a stand of trees.

It was the Maserati all right; a bit of red paint could still be seen on the trunk, and so could the rear license plate – the rest was engulfed in flames. They couldn't get any closer than 30 yards away, but it didn't matter much; whoever was inside was gone, as was most of the front of the vehicle. The fire was raging so fiercely they couldn't even see inside the car. They worked their way around the perimeter searching the brush to see if Tuttle might have been tossed from the car, but there was nothing but a few bits of expensive automobile – a side mirror, some pieces of trim, a tire.

They met again back on the slope, and David shook his head and wiped at the perspiration running down his face. The roar of the flames was so loud it was hard to talk, so he pointed upward and Colby nodded, and they slowly worked their way back up the slope. Flashing lights could be seen at the top – their police backup had arrived, and as they made the rim, David saw a fire truck pull up behind the police cars with a low growl of its siren. They stood there panting, drenched in sweat as the emergency team began to make their way down the slope, and Colby gave a slow wag of his head.

"Doesn't look like our friend Tuttle made it out of that," he said, and David grunted.

"If it _is_ Tuttle."

Colby looked at him. "We saw him get in the car after he shot Scarpelli. There was no one else in it."

"And we saw the Maserati parked at the gas station with another car beside it, when we came down the off ramp," David reminded him. "I didn't think about it until we were already on Mulholland, but there was a silver Lexus parked at the gas station. What if it wasn't a coincidence that another vehicle was there? What if he switched vehicles with someone at the gas station?"

Colby looked chagrined. "You mean we were following the wrong car?"

David shook his head. "Maybe, but not necessarily. The chopper pilot told us we were just seconds behind him. Maybe, even if a switch was planned, he didn't have time to switch – maybe it was still Tuttle in the Maserati. Let's get on the horn and see if our pilot saw anything."

A few minutes later they both slumped back in the seats of the sedan, and David could feel a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach. They'd just raised the chopper pilot through dispatch, and the pilot had told them that he hadn't seen Tuttle exit the Maserati and get into the other vehicle, but he admitted he had been coming around in a turn at the time, and for a few seconds he had lost sight of the red car. By the time he had come back around to face the gas station, the silver car was already parked, David's car was coming down the off ramp, and the red Maserati was swinging around, pulling out of the gas station. The pilot thought it unlikely they'd had time to make a switch, but he couldn't rule it out.

"They should be able to ID the body," said Colby.

David's lips tightened; and his dark eyes bore through the windshield. "It'll take days, if they can do it at all – the body will be nothing but a lump of coal by the time they get it out of there."

Colby stared out the windshield with him, and for a moment, silence descended. Neither of them wanted to go back and tell Don that they had no idea if they had Tuttle or not – and if not, he was as sure as gone. He looked at David. "Let's go back and check the gas station. Maybe they have a surveillance camera – it might tell us something."

David nodded. "Good thinking," he said, as he started the engine, but his tone was anything but optimistic. They rode in silence all the way out of the hills.

**…**

Finally, breathed Robin, as she pushed through the door of the exam bay, and her eyes fell on Don.

She'd been accosted on her way down the hall from Alan's room by a nurse, a short stout black woman with a suspicious pout, who had tried to shoo her out of the ER to the waiting area. Robin had taken advantage of the fact that they were obviously allowing officers in for questioning purposes – Nikki was there, after all. She had drawn herself up to her full height, and announced "Robin Brooks, District Attorney's office. I need to question the FBI officer who was brought in – Don Eppes."

The woman had sized her up for a moment, her eyes lingering on Robin's bruised face and disheveled hair, then nodded grudgingly and led the way to Don's room. Robin was grateful to Nikki – she'd never have been able to pull that off without Nikki's jacket, which had buttoned up just high enough in front to hide the torn blouse. She stalked behind the nurse, feeling all the more stately as the much shorter woman waddled in front of her – but all pretense fled as she caught sight of Don, sitting propped up in bed. A huge wave of relief and love rose inside of her, and it was all she could do to maintain her composure as the nurse bustled out and closed the door behind her. He was alone, Robin noted with relief – he must have been deemed stable, or they wouldn't have left him without medical personnel in attendance. He was staring at her, his dark eyes burning, and for a moment, she felt a clutch of fear at her heart. They'd argued just before she'd been kidnapped; she'd been huffy, insufferable. Maybe she'd pushed it too far… Then he held up his arms, and she rushed across the room into them and buried her face in his shoulder, tears welling in her eyes. "Oh, Don," she moaned softly.

She felt his arms tighten around her, could feel the soft short hairs just behind his ear graze her cheek, and the scent and the sound of him enveloped her, dragging out emotion that she'd held in so tightly for the last several days – all of it – the anger, the terror – swirled together with love and longing so intense it made her head swim. She had to keep a hand on his arm to steady herself as he gently pulled away so that he could gaze at her face, and then he softly, soothingly wiped away her tears, and as his thumb smoothed lightly over the bruise on her cheek, his eyes turned black again. "They hurt you," he said, his voice thick and raspy with anger. "Which one of them did this?"

She straightened; glad again for Nikki's jacket, and the fact that it hid her torn blouse. Don was injured and under enough stress; he looked ready to pop as it was. His words were just slightly slurred; he was under the effects of painkillers and was probably not thinking straight. If he knew what had happened – how close she'd come to being raped – "I'm fine," she said, resolutely wiping away the rest of the tears. "How are you doing? What did the doctor say?"

He was silent for a moment, unwilling to drop the issue with his question unanswered, but then he sighed heavily. "I'm okay. Just a couple of flesh wounds. The leg'll take a little therapy, but they said it shouldn't be permanently affected."

The words came out laced with sarcasm and self-loathing, and Robin frowned. In spite of the painkillers, Don seemed wound tight, on the brink, ready to implode. He looked up then, something dark still burning in his eyes, but before he could continue, there was a soft knock at the door. A doctor poked his head in, and Robin saw a look of recognition cross Don's face, felt him tighten with anticipation – or apprehension.

"Agent," said the doctor with a nod at Don, as he advanced with his hand out, offering it to Robin as he introduced himself. He looked vaguely familiar, and when he gave his name, Robin realized why – Shapiro – he was the doctor that did medical specials for the local news shows.

"Robin Brooks," she said. "I'm with the District Attorney's office."

Shapiro was regarding them with his eyebrows raised, obviously noting their proximity to each other. "And you are also one of the victims," he added, with a glance at his clipboard. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," said Robin. "They released me. Nothing that a good meal and a hot bath won't cure." That was a flat lie; she would need months of hot baths to remove the feeling of her captor's hands on her body. This was no time to talk about her, however; there was obviously some other reason for the doctor being there – it was almost as if Don was expecting him.

Shapiro nodded soberly and then looked at Don. "I have information for you on your brother."

He shot a glance at Robin, and Don saw it and said, "She can stay. She can hear whatever you have to tell me." He reached for Robin's hand, and she took it, and held on tightly. The fluorescent lights in the room suddenly seemed too bright, too cold, and Robin shivered.

"Let me get right to the point," said Shapiro. "The gunshot wound was serious, but not life-threatening in itself, and should result in no permanent damage. It was a flesh wound only – it went in through the upper part of his shoulder a few inches from the neck, chewed through a bit of the trapezoid muscle and plowed under the skin of his back for a couple of inches before it exited, just above his shoulder blade. There was a fair amount of blood loss, but the wound has already been repaired and that is under control."

Robin could feel Don exhale, could feel him shaking with emotion, and when she glanced at him she saw him sag with relief, and drop his head, as if in prayer. The doctor cleared his throat, and she looked back at him.

"There are some complications, however." He waited for a second as Don's head came up again, and continued, gently. "Your brother has pneumonia. We had to put him on oxygen, and we are admitting him to intensive care. It's a fairly advanced case, I'm afraid."

For a moment, Don just stared at him, then he said, "How advanced?"

Shapiro paused, his eyes probing Don's, and then he shifted slightly, uncomfortably. "It's about as bad as I've seen," he said finally. "We are getting him on treatment right away, and the specialists should be here soon. They are two of the finest in L.A. – he'll be in the best of hands."

Don swallowed and shook his head. His grip on Robin's hand tightened. "I mean – what's the prognosis? They'll treat this, and – and he'll make it, right?"

"That's the plan," said Shapiro encouragingly, and then, as he saw Don wasn't buying his lack of specifics, sighed. "The specialists will be better able to give you a prognosis once they understand the source of the pneumonia – whether it is viral or bacterial – and after they understand some other factors. I'll make sure they'll give you and your father their assessment as soon as they have it."

Don's jaw jutted stubbornly. "You're a doctor, right? Or are you just an actor? You've gotta have an opinion – don't worry – I won't hold you to it, and I'll listen to what the specialists have to say. I just want your personal opinion."

Shapiro held his eyes, and let out a slow breath. "Okay," he said quietly. "Not good. His chances are not good."

He nodded at them with sympathy, and murmured something about needing to talk to Don's father, and left the room. Don was staring straight ahead with unseeing eyes, and his hand had gone limp in Robin's. The door swung shut with a soft click, and silence descended in the room.

**…**

An hour and a half later, David and Colby pushed into Don's room in the ER, their heads hanging.

All the way there, Colby had felt a growing dread, as if he were perched on the brink of something – something indefinable, something bad. He attributed it to the trepidation he felt over having to tell Don that their chase had ended, that they had a body – but they couldn't be sure it was Tuttle. That, and the horrible events of the evening: Colby's arrival at the warehouse to find Don and Charlie both shot, then having to shoot a man himself, and then the disastrous chase. Of course, he reminded himself, it wasn't the first time he'd ever shot another human being, but it wasn't something one enjoyed doing – although the fact that the man was about to dispatch a close friend made it a lot easier to take.

Much worse was finding that friend unconscious and bleeding, and Don also shot, bleeding and in near shock – and then finding that it was Don himself who had shot Charlie. Colby and David had been pulled away for the operation to apprehend Tuttle before either of them was even sure how badly the Eppes brothers were injured; they'd had to hightail several blocks to get to the point where Tuttle was meeting his driver. Then there was the chase, and the crash, and the follow-up at the gas station afterward.

Unfortunately, their trip back to the gas station had yielded nothing; the store had a camera, but it was inside the building, and only picked up a small portion of the parking lot that could be seen through the front doors. There was another camera in the protective overhang over the gas dispensers to keep an eye on possible gas thieves, but nothing trained on the side of the building, which was where Tuttle and the silver car had been parked. On the footage from the camera over the gas pumps, there was a glimpse of the red Maserati as it pulled out of the gas station, but the angle wasn't good and they couldn't see the driver. It picked up the plates, just fine, but that was no help – they needed to know who was in the car.

They had gone back to the crash site in time to see that the fire had been extinguished and medics hauling a body up in a stretcher. David had ordered them pull down the covering; but there was nothing to tell them that the body was Tuttle. In fact, it was barely recognizable as human; the charred form was bent in half, the blackened limbs bent and drawn inward – the medics had been forced to lay it on its side. A black lump lay next to it – it appeared to be the remnants of a hand – black as coal, with most of its fingers missing. The medic explained that the hand had fallen off when they tried to get the person out of the vehicle. It was going to be a tough ID. On their way to the hospital, Colby had prayed in order of priority: first that Don and Charlie Eppes were okay, and second, that Don didn't kill him and David when they told him about Tuttle, and third, that the charred remains _were_ Tuttle – damn him – and that the coroner could come up with a positive ID.

It appeared his first prayer had been answered when they entered the room. Don was sitting up in bed, his eyes a little glassy, but he appeared to be in decent shape. Robin was slumped in a chair, sleeping, no doubt exhausted, although she roused herself when they entered, reflexively pulling a jacket closed in front of her, even though it was already buttoned shut.

Don _was_ upright, which looked like a good sign, but his dark eyes had a far-away look to them – painkillers, no doubt, thought Colby. As they approached the bedside with a nod at Robin, David spoke. "How are you feeling? What about Alan? And Charlie? What did the doctor say?"

At the questions, Don's mouth twisted in a bitter smile, and Robin jumped in hastily. "Don has two GSW's – a graze on his upper arm, and a deeper wound that hit his upper leg and hip area – but they say he'll be fine, with a little therapy. Charlie's gunshot wound was moderately serious and he lost some blood, but it was a flesh wound to his shoulder, and they've already repaired it. Alan will be okay – he has some bumps and bruises and a swollen knee."

Don's eyes were alert now, raking their faces, glittering like dark coals. The intensity was unnerving. "Tell me you got him."

His voice was unnerving, too, raspy with emotion – anger and something else very intense – hatred, maybe? Colby couldn't place it, but Don seemed furious with someone. Colby didn't know with whom – but he did know that as soon as they gave Don an answer, that fury would be directed at them. He swallowed, and he and David looked at each other.

David, the team leader, dutifully took the speaking role – setting himself up for the brunt of Don's reaction. "Maybe."

Don's voice was harsh. "Don't play games. Did you get him, or not?"

David paused, taken aback by the uncharacteristic sharpness of the retort, but he kept his voice level. "You heard that he shot Officer Scarpelli, when he came for his car."

Don nodded. "Yes. Nikki told me that much. She said LAPD told her he got in a red Maserati, and that you were in pursuit."

David continued. "He got on the highway. There was a fair amount of traffic. We had eyes in the sky, so we decided to hang back a bit and let the chopper track him – we didn't want to cause a dangerous situation for the others on the highway. We were hoping he'd get off, and we'd be able to corner him somewhere in a place where the speed of his car wouldn't be such an advantage. We almost did. He must have thought he'd lost us – he got off at a gas station in North Hollywood. When we came down the off-ramp, he saw us, and took off again before we could pen him in. He high-tailed it down a block or two; then jumped on Mulholland. We gave pursuit, but he got out of sight ahead of us on the curves – not by much – just a second or two."

"He was going way too fast for those curves," interjected Colby. "David was pushing it as it was - and it's a good thing he didn't keep up, because the Maserati lost control on one of the bends, and crashed in a ravine. We came up on the accident site just as the car exploded."

Don's face twitched slightly, but there was no other response. David picked up the thread. "We got down to the car, but whoever was in it was gone."

Don's frown deepened. "Whoever was in it?"

David shot a glance at Colby, and then looked back at Don. On the other side of the bed, Robin was standing, pale and silent. David said, "There was another car at the gas station parked next to the Maserati when we got off the highway ramp. It was a silver Lexus. We don't know if it was coincidence, but it could be that Tuttle was meeting someone there. Maybe he switched cars with someone. We checked with the chopper pilot – he had lost sight of the Maserati for a second or two as he was coming around, and the cameras at the gas station didn't pick up that part of the lot. We don't know if there was a switch or not." He paused to let that sink in, and then fell on the sword. "By the time they recovered the body, it was charcoal. It's going to be a tough ID – if they even can get one."

They waited for the outburst, but there was none. Don had turned ashen, and his eyes had gone blank, as if he was in shock. Robin was the one who spoke, and her voice sounded shaky as she shot a concerned glance at Don. "You're telling us you don't know for sure that it's Tuttle – that we might never know?"

"We'll have to wait and see what the coroner says," said David, miserably. "I'm sorry, Don."

There was still no response; it was as if Don had mentally left the room. He was staring at the wall, and it looked as though he mouthed a word or two, silently – to Colby, it looked as though he was saying the word 'sorry.'

Robin looked taken aback herself by Don's reaction, but she patted his arm, and then indicated the door. "Let's talk outside."

They stepped out; Colby saw that Don seemed to rouse himself a bit as they left, rubbing his eyes as if awakening again. "Painkillers," Colby thought again to himself – although he was quite sure that painkillers weren't the only contributor to Don's behavior. He was right – they weren't, he found, as Robin began to speak – but being right was no consolation.

"It's Charlie," Robin said in a hushed tone.

Colby felt his gut contract at her tone and the look on her face. "I thought you said his wound wasn't serious."

"It wasn't – but he has an advanced case of pneumonia. They put him in intensive care. The last I heard, he's still unconscious. That might be due to blood loss, but –,"

"But what?" David prompted.

Robin's face twisted, and tears glistened in her eyes. "The doctor told us that he doesn't think his chances are very good."

Colby stared at her. He understood now the look on Don's face – the look of a man on the brink of an abyss, hoping at least for vindication – for justice to be done, in his brother's name – and neither Colby nor David had been able to deliver it.

**…**

At a few minutes to midnight, Shapiro stood outside the ICU, listening to Doctors Forster and Perkins argue over the best course of action regarding initial treatment for Charlie Eppes.

It had been an interesting night – although a difficult one. Shapiro had left Don Eppes – obviously crushed by the news of his brother's condition – for an even more heart-wrenching talk with his father. That situation was made worse yet by the presence of one of the victims – a Dr. Amita Ramanujan, who apparently was Charlie Eppes' significant other. Shapiro gave them news of Don first, and in the ensuing conversation, he began to piece bits of conversation and information together. He confirmed his impression that Robin Brooks and Don Eppes were an item – and found that both women had been kidnapped by someone attempting some kind of extortion. From what Shapiro could gather from bits of conversation gleaned throughout the evening, the two brothers and the FBI had attempted to set up a sting designed to rescue the women and expose the kidnapping and extortion attempt. There had been a shootout; the women had been rescued relatively unharmed, but their rescuers, the Eppes brothers, weren't so lucky. It was a fascinating story, the kind of human intrigue that made the job worthwhile to Shapiro, although it was having some unintended side effects. He was becoming too involved in this one; he knew it.

He always tried to keep a professional distance; he had a tendency to care a little too much for his patients, and at one point in his career, nearly had a breakdown after becoming too emotionally invested in too many cases. So a few years previously, he had taken a step back, reduced his own practice, and instead had taken on some administrative duties at the hospital, and started the consulting bit with the local television stations. He had vowed to himself – and to his supremely patient wife – that he would watch out for himself a little better; not work so late, not get so emotionally involved…but the situation in Alan Eppes' room had been heart-wrenching, especially when the female agent they called Nikki inadvertently let the cat out of the bag regarding who had shot Charlie Eppes. Alan Eppes was so stunned by that revelation that he didn't press Shapiro too hard regarding the severity of Charlie's condition, and Shapiro had escaped from the room without having to tell him outright that his youngest son probably would not make it. He should have gone home on the spot – it was far past the time when he had told his wife he would leave, and it had been a long and exhausting day.

And yet here he still was. He couldn't help it; the circumstances surrounding the case were captivating, and the patients themselves were fascinating in their own rights. The brooding, taciturn agent – head of the L.A. office, Shapiro had found – his brother, apparently a math professor at Cal Sci, although he seemed very young for that, and their father, Alan, who reminded Shapiro so much of his own father at that age. His father would have been a few years older than Alan Eppes, but he had died at around the same age Alan Eppes was now, and the resemblance to his own father was enough to remind Shapiro of him every time he looked at the man. Maybe that was why he had flung himself into this case – perhaps the initial request by Alan Eppes to check on his sons had sparked old memories of his father.

"Freud would have a field day with this one," Shapiro muttered to himself, as he listened to the two specialists hold a heated conversation. They were both cranky and irritable at being called out so late at night, but they too had been sucked into the drama of the case, and were arguing as passionately over the treatment of the young man as if he was one their own sons. Shapiro smiled grimly to himself – at least he wasn't the only one getting emotionally involved.

"I think we should start him on Biaxin," insisted Perkins, a short balding man with a round head and a body to match.

"No," said Forster, shaking his head. The thick gray hair that crowned his tall frame was so wiry it didn't move a bit in spite of the wagging. "Not until the blood work comes back. You should know that strong antibiotics can be hard on a body that is already this stressed – and if the pneumonia is viral instead of bacterial, antibiotics would be no good anyway."

"But if it _is_ bacterial, we are losing valuable time. We could have him on antibiotics at least a couple of hours before the blood work comes back."

"I expedited the blood work," said Shapiro.

Perkins snorted. "We all know that even if they jump on it right away, it takes a few hours to complete the testing. He's on the brink, here. He needs all the time he can get."

"It can't be news to you that the flu has been running rampant through L.A.," said Forster. "This is likely the same thing we have been seeing for the last few weeks. It's a nasty strain – I've seen two patients die from it, myself." He looked at Shapiro. "Did he have the flu before the pneumonia showed up? Did anyone else in his family have the flu?"

"His father had it," said Shapiro. "He was hospitalized himself for a day or two. I went back and questioned Don Eppes; it sounds as though he might have had a mild case – said he felt bad for a couple of days, but got over it relatively quickly."

Forster nodded triumphantly. "There you have it. It's viral."

"Then he's a dead man," said Perkins. His quiet comment immediately took the wind out of Forster's sails. "If it _is_virus, we have to let it run its course – antibiotics will do no good – and unless it has already completed its course, it is only going to get worse."

"Nonsense," said Forster, although he sounded as though he didn't quite believe his own attempts at encouragement. "You know as well as I that there are treatments for viral pneumonia – breathing treatments, oxygen, expectorants – not to mention bed rest. He's had none of those until now."

They turned away, still immersed in animated discussion, and Shapiro looked from them to the room on his right, and slowly pushed through the door.

He stood in the doorway a moment, regarding the young man under the oxygen mask. Charlie Eppes was still unconscious; not a good sign. Shapiro drifted forward and studied the patient.

He looked young; even more youthful than his real age, which was young enough, for a tenured professor. His age was a plus - he was young and strong – well, presumably strong – he did appear to be on the thin side, Shapiro thought, as his eyes fell on the young man's forearm. His chest was rising and falling harder than it should; his body fighting for air even in the oblivion of unconsciousness. His file lay on the edge of the bed, and Shapiro picked it up.

He hadn't really expected any more in it than what he'd seen a couple of hours ago, when he'd leafed through it downstairs in radiology, but the hospital staff had been busy in the meantime. As was customary for any patient admitted to ICU, the staff pulled any available information they could find in the way of medical records. Much of Charlie's records would have to wait for morning, when doctors' offices opened, but the hospital did share a database with the physicians who had privileges there. One of them had been Aaron Shulman, who had treated Charlie Eppes just prior to his own shooting. Tragedy, there. Shapiro knew Shulman; he was a fine doctor, and a random shooting had left him so disabled that he'd had to leave his practice. Shapiro pursed his lips and frowned as he read – the young man had apparently been blinded some months ago, suffering reduced vision – although correctable – in one eye, and blindness in the other. He frowned and looked back at Eppes, and shook his head. Rough life for a professor, he thought to himself. Rough life for someone so young.

"You deserve a chance, Charlie Eppes," he said softly. "And by God, I'm going to make sure you get it."

**…**

End, Chapter 28


	29. Fog

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 29: Fog**

**…  
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"What's wrong with you?"

Don Eppes lay in his darkened room on the second floor of the hospital, and the words seemed to echo, although they came out as a whisper. Or maybe he hadn't even said them aloud – that thought, or a variation of it, had been bouncing off the confines of his skull since the night before.

It was now mid-morning; he'd endured breakfast because his nurse would give him no rest otherwise, but afterward he'd had her turn out the light and draw the shades, although a bit of daylight still filtered through. He lay there in a fog of despair, staring at the ceiling, although his eyes didn't register what they were seeing.

Instead, pictures flashed through his mind, more vivid than his surroundings – scenes from the past several months, starting with the day he'd first come to Charlie for help with an investigation that had led to an intrusion into his apartment by someone unknown, someone they found later to be Tuttle. Don had to face it, he'd been obsessed with bringing Tuttle in, ever since his first run-in with him a few years earlier – and he had let that obsession take him, lead him where it would. "And to hell with anyone else who got in the way," he muttered, his voice filled with self-loathing. He'd dragged them all into it – his family, Robin, his friends, his team, and others - Sherriff Sam Jarrett from Idaho, Rabbi Shulman and his son, Aaron, officer Scarpelli, who was in the hospital in critical condition, and most of all, Charlie – there wasn't one among them that hadn't paid a price, or who hadn't at least been jeopardized at some point by his single-minded, myopic attempts to bring Tuttle to justice.

At times during the last several months, even he had to admit, he was reacting in self-defense – but there were several points during that time where he could have ended it, could have walked away from the case, and it never would have come to this. Charlie was almost as bad as he was; he clamped onto the case like a pit bull once he realized that they were on to Tuttle – but if Don would have abandoned the case and insisted that Charlie abandon it also, Charlie might have dragged his feet a little, maybe run another search algorithm or two, but in the end, if Don insisted, he would have done it. Charlie had pretty much done everything that Don had ever asked him to do, at least when it came to helping him on cases. Certainly so when it had come to this case.

Don had thought that the day he found out that Charlie had been blinded by that fight at the warehouse in Chicago was the worst day of his life – or at least on par with the day he'd found out that Robin had been kidnapped by Tuttle. Well, he was wrong on both counts – the worst day of his life was imminent. Any minute now, the doctor could come in and tell him that his brother was dead – he was dead because he hadn't gotten care in time. Charlie had passed out two days ago, and what had Don done? Laid him on the sofa, and rationalized his way out of taking him to the hospital. He'd watched Charlie grow steadily sicker, steadily weaker, instead of making sure he got care, because he'd been too afraid of spooking Tuttle. If he'd gone ahead and gotten Charlie to a doctor, Charlie would be convalescing; maybe already out of the hospital. Tuttle would have waited for their meeting – he wouldn't have liked it, but he would have had to wait – because Don and Charlie were the targets, after all. Tuttle needed both of them to show up, so he would have waited. And that extra time would have played into the FBI's hands; they would likely have found where Tuttle was holding the girls long before Don and Charlie had to meet with him – they could have taken their time, come up with a real plan, instead of some half-assed rush job that had gotten both he and Charlie shot…

"Single-minded, stupid," he told himself, "– not just stupid, _criminally_ stupid – you shouldn't even be in the FBI, much less as the SAC…"

"I beg to differ."

Don's head jerked up. A.D. Wright was standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the light in the hallway. "May I come in?"

Don sighed, hit the switch for the overhead light, winced as it came on, and waved Wright in.

Wright walked forward, pulled a chair closer to the bedside. "Being a little hard on yourself, aren't you?"

Don glanced at him. He tried to keep the twist of self-disgust from his mouth and failed, tried to hide it by looking away.

"I stopped upstairs, at the ICU. Your father is up with your brother, sitting in a wheelchair. He wouldn't let an injured knee keep him away. He's wondering what is keeping you."

Don ignored the gentle jab. "Anything from the coroner yet?"

Wright regarded him for a moment. "We got a warrant for Tuttle's house last night, got some DNA samples from his toothbrush, so the coroner had something to match. We put Murphy on it – he's our best. He won't be able to use dental records; the face and jaw were too destroyed. He found a few fillings – he might at least be able to match those. It wouldn't be conclusive, but it would give us an indication. He isn't done looking for some pockets of unburned tissue, but it isn't looking good. At best, he thinks he'll get some mitochondrial DNA from the bone marrow."

Don shook his head. "Not good enough. Mitochondrial DNA will only give us a partial. It'll be enough to say it _could_ be him, but we won't know for sure."

Wright smiled ruefully. "You won't give it up, will you?"

Unknowingly, he touched a nerve, and grief and anger flared. Don glared at him, his voice shaking despite his best effort. "My brother is dying because of Tuttle, because of this case – the least I can do for him is be sure we get the bastard."

"The least you could do for your brother is be with him – and your father," said Wright mildly, seemingly unperturbed by Don's outburst.

"He's not even conscious," Don muttered, dropping his eyes to his hands, which were curled in fists in his lap. He relaxed them with an effort. "He wouldn't know if I was there or not."

"Don't sell him short – his eyes were open when I was up there – they say that is the first time he opened them since last evening."

Don looked up in surprise, and studied Wright's face – for what, he wasn't sure. Wright wouldn't lie to him, he knew that. He also knew that his boss was absolutely correct – he _should_ be up there, especially if Charlie didn't have long. He just needed to bring himself to go – to get past the crushing guilt, and the overwhelming fear of what he would see. He wasn't sure he wanted his last memories of Charlie to be this way, to be of him on his death bed. But if Wright was correct and Charlie's eyes were open – maybe he was improving. Maybe there was hope… Don caught a glimpse of possible resurrection, and he took it.

"Okay," he grumbled. "I'll call the nurse and have her bring a wheelchair."

Wright nodded. "Not walking yet?"

Don grimaced. "Short distances only, and with crutches – but the crutches are hard on the stitches in my arm. They told me I'm in a chair for anything further than the bathroom."

Wright pursed his lips and nodded, and rose, heading for the doorway. "I'm on my way out. I'll get someone to bring one." He paused at the door. "And Agent?" He met Don's eyes. "You did a hell of a job on this one – you did everything you could, and then some – under extraordinary circumstances. Cut yourself a break."

**…**

And so Don did – at least, temporarily. He pushed back the overwhelming, almost debilitating sense of guilt and fear, and made arrangements to be wheeled up to Charlie's room. When he got up to the ICU floor, he had to wrangle with the staff for a few minutes – it seemed that they were reluctant to allow two people in wheelchairs in an intensive care room at the same time, for fear that Don and his father would be in the way in the event of an emergency. A tall gray-haired doctor named Forster – one of the specialists, as it turned out, intervened, and eventually Don was pushed into Charlie's room, and situated next to his father – both of them safely out of the pathway from the doorway to Charlie's bed.

Alan's eyes met his when he came in. Don could read the fear and concern in them – but there was relief also. Don wasn't sure if that was due to his arrival, or maybe – based on Wright's comments – due to the hope that Charlie was improving. His father's face was bruised, and his knee held straight in front of him in plastic brace, and Don couldn't help but think, '_I caused that._'

"I was wondering where you were," was all that Alan said, and he turned his eyes back toward Charlie.

"How's he doing?" murmured Don, as he scanned his brother's face, offering no explanation for his late arrival. His father would see through any excuse, anyway.

In spite of what Wright had said about Charlie being conscious, he now seemed to be out again. He looked terrible – pale and drawn, and his breathing sounded labored under his oxygen mask. Dark matted curls and dark stubble on his face only accentuated the paleness; to Don, it seemed as though his skin had a bluish cast. He was wearing no gown, just a sheet pulled up to his chest, and the bandage on his shoulder was in plain view, as if it had been purposely placed to exacerbate Don's remorse.

"He's been in and out of consciousness since this morning," said Alan. "He woke up at one point and had a coughing fit, which they said was a good thing, but…" his voice trailed off, and when Don looked at him closely, he could see the anxiety in his eyes.

His father changed the subject. "Amita showed up as early this morning as they would allow visitors, but she wasn't feeling well, and the nurse overheard her mention it to me. They shooed her out – said they didn't want anyone in here with anything contagious – that Charlie couldn't fight anything else off. She tried to protest, and they ended up taking her temperature – it was a little high, so they banned her from the ICU – she was devastated." He sighed. "I hope she's not coming down with the stuff. I have to attest, it's pretty nasty." He shot a worried glance at Don. "You feel okay, right?"

"Yeah, great," growled Don. "I think I already had it, anyway – a milder case." He sat there, his eyes on Charlie, stewing silently, '_I've been shot up, I might have lost my suspect, and oh, by the way, it wasn't enough to push my brother hard enough to kill him – I had to shoot him, too.'_

"Amita told me what happened at the warehouse," said Alan, gently, as if reading his thoughts. "She said that Charlie jumped from a concealed spot right into your line of fire – she said it wasn't your fault. And the injury wasn't serious, anyway."

"Who knows what effect it had?" Don shot back, bitterly. "The loss of blood – the effort it's taking for his body to heal that injury on top of the pneumonia – maybe it's enough to push him over the edge, for all we know. As if I didn't do a good enough job setting him up for this to begin with – he was so sick he's barely been functioning the last few days, and all I did was push him. He passed out two days ago – I should have sent him to the hospital then." The words spewed out, full of self-hatred and almost unbidden; and Don had to catch his breath at the end of them. There was a twisted sense of satisfaction in the pain they caused him, though, and oddly, a sense of relief. There it was – his guilt, his fear, his stupidity – all hanging in the wind in front of the person whose opinion mattered most in the world to him. He'd reached rock bottom – it was a relief to know that at least he couldn't go any further.

"Don, Charlie's a grown man – he doesn't need you to tell him to go to the hospital, and even if you did, I know how stubborn he is," said his father, shaking his head. "Do you think he would listen -," but before he could continue, Charlie suddenly stirred and opened his eyes. Alan stopped mid-sentence, and they both stared at him.

Charlie didn't stare back, in fact, he didn't seem to focus on anything – rather, his face contorted and his eyes wandered the room – as if he were desperately searching for help. His breathing deepened, and then he began to cough – a horrible choking that convulsed his entire body.

Alan immediately hit the button for the ICU desk, his hand shaking. "He did this earlier," he said, and the agitation in his voice made Don wonder. Surely coughing was a good thing for someone with pneumonia…

The coughing deepened, and in between coughs Charlie began to gasp for breath, each gasp an awful ragged vocal noise. His dark eyes found Don's and grew wide with panic under the oxygen mask, and his skin began to darken as the staff rushed in, pulled him on his side, and pulled away the mask – just in time – Charlie choked again and vomited into a bedpan, then choked some more. The horrible gasping was gone – which was even more terrifying; Charlie now was not breathing at all; just gurgling, staring at Don as if beseeching him to help. The panic was fading in his eyes, fading to nothingness, and then he collapsed in an intern's arms, unconscious again.

Don could feel nausea of his own building, as someone shouted for suction. He either had just watched his brother die – or at the least, experienced a heartbreaking episode that was sure to be repeated on Charlie's way to a horrible death – and either way, Don couldn't take any more. He fumbled for the wheels of his wheelchair, and pushed blindly out of the room.

Outside in the hallway, he stopped, head bowed, nearly overcome. He could hear the sharp commands in the room behind him, the sound of suctioning air, a beep that was probably Charlie's heart monitor – and kept waiting for that beep to stop pulsing, waiting for the horrible flat whine, that meant his brother was gone. It didn't come – instead, the voices calmed, the beep grew steady, and eventually he sensed footsteps around him. One nurse stooped to look into his face to make sure he was okay, and he finally raised his head. Satisfied, she moved on down the hallway. He still had no strength to move, however – all he could see was the horrible panicked look on Charlie's face as he desperately tried to bring in air – those dark eyes locked on his.

There was movement beside him – his father, looking pale and shaken himself – had wheeled himself next to him. "He's okay," Alan said. "He's okay, Don. He's sleeping again."

Don shook his head, and forced words out through a tight throat. "He's not okay, Dad – you saw it. He's slowly suffocating – when he's awake, he's terrified because he can't breathe. We'd better pray to God that he doesn't wake up again – that he goes peacefully."

"Bite your tongue!" retorted Alan. His voice shook with anger. "He's fighting this – and you're giving up on him! He deserves a little better than that, don't you think?" He took a breath, and tried to speak more calmly. "I know this is hard, and I know you're blaming yourself. I'll say it again, Donny, it's not your fault. Look, they're going to MRI my knee later today, and then they will probably discharge me, and refer me to an orthopedic doctor. Once I'm out of here, it is not going to be easy for me to get back and forth. I'm going to spend as much time with him as I can, but when I'm not here – you need to be. I know it's a tall order, and that you're recuperating, yourself -,"

"It's not that, Dad," said Don miserably. Did his father really think that all he was concerned about were his own injuries? "It's just - ,"

"He needs to have someone here who is fighting for him," Alan went on, as if Don hadn't spoken, although his voice softened, became more soothing. "Amita can't be – they won't let her – so it's me and you. I think you ought to go back downstairs now, and get some rest, because later, you may need to be here."

It was a kind dismissal, but it was a dismissal. Don got the message. If he was going to be pessimistic over Charlie's chances, his father really didn't want him around. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he went back downstairs… "Yeah, okay," he said heavily. Instead of wheeling for the central ICU desk to have them call for an orderly, however, he turned his chair around and wheeled it back to the entrance to Charlie's room, and stared at his brother. Charlie was sleeping peacefully again, but Don had a horrible premonition that this would be the last time he saw him alive. He took one long last look at his brother's face, and wheeled around, down the hall to the ICU desk.

**…**

Charlie stirred, and his breathing quickened. A vague sense of panic started in his gut – there wasn't enough air in the room, not enough air… His eyes flew open, and roved around the room. His brain seemed to be sluggish, floating in a fog, and without his contact lens or glasses, his vision was just as blurry. He didn't realize it, but low oxygen levels were compromising clear thought – he couldn't quite grasp where he was, or what was happening. Two figures sat across from him, and they were close enough and familiar enough that he could make them out – his father, and Don. He was aware that no one else was there – but thought vaguely that someone else should be there - _Amita_. Disjointed scenes from the warehouse came to his mind – he was sure he had seen her there. Had she gotten out okay? Why wasn't she with Don and his father?

They were staring at him, just sitting there, and he wanted to ask them about Amita, ask them to help him, but he couldn't talk – God, he couldn't even breathe, and _oh_, _no_, _please no_ - he had to cough. Dim memory of an earlier episode made him realize that above all, he did not want to start coughing, because he knew he wouldn't be able to stop. The hacking, the choking thickness in his throat would come… He coughed, he couldn't help it; and panic flared in earnest. He tried to sit up, but couldn't… his eyes found Don's as the choking deepened. Phlegm forced into his throat was making him gag – he couldn't breathe at all now – why was Don just sitting there? Why weren't they helping? Figures in blue rushed in around him, and the room began to darken. _Can't breathe_ - _God, I'm dying…_

**…**

Colby, Liz, Sam Jarrett and Nikki sat huddled around the conference table, with all eyes on David, who had just hung up the phone with the coroner, Dr. Murphy. "What'd he say?" prompted Nikki impatiently.

David shook his head. "Nothing good," he said, his voice thick with disappointment. "He doesn't even think he can get a reliable test from the bone marrow to get MT DNA – and even if he could, that wouldn't get us full results. There's no way to know if it's Tuttle or not."

"The guy had the right number of fillings in his head," protested Nikki, unwilling to concede defeat.

"That and a buck will get you a cheap cigar," muttered Colby, although he wasn't willing to give up the fight either. There had to be _something_…

"What about the guy in the Lexus?" asked Sam Jarrett.

"What about him?" said Liz, eying him curiously.

"Maybe we can get a line on him somehow," said Sam, "even if we don't have a license plate."

"You're right," responded Colby. "Think about it – if Charlie were here, he'd write a search algorithm that would cross-check silver Lexus owners against possible connections to Tuttle. At the very least, we could look for silver Lexus owners that have been reported missing – if they switched cars and the dead guy was the Lexus owner, maybe someone would have missed him by now."

David nodded. "Good thinking. It'll take us a little while to do it manually, but we can run a list with the DMV and divide it up. Let's get on it."

It actually took less time than Colby would have thought – only a couple of hours, before Liz said, "Here's something."

They all looked up at her from their computers, to see rising excitement dawning on her face. "This guy – Connor Mason – he's a pilot – he has a charter flight business. He flies out of Burbank – which is close to the gas station Tuttle stopped at. We know that Scarpelli told his partner, Meese, that Tuttle was headed for an airport. What if Tuttle was having this Mason guy fly him out of the country?"

David nodded, approvingly, rising as he said, "Good work. Keep digging, but while you do, Colby and I will follow that one up. Address?"

Liz rattled it off – his home was also a Burbank address – apparently Connor Mason liked to be close to his planes. Colby rose and headed out on David's heels. He was bone tired, but the fatigue dissipated as anticipation rose, and he and David strode through the parking garage with renewed purpose. Maybe they were finally getting somewhere.

That thought lasted about an hour. Connor Mason was home, and answered the door, with a smile that looked a bit forced. He was of medium build, thirties, with sharp gray eyes, medium brown hair and about three days growth of beard to match.

David flashed his ID. "Mr. Mason – FBI. Mind if we come in?"

Mason's grin faltered a bit, but he kept it firmly plastered in place, trying to look pleasant. "What's this about?"

"We have reason to believe that you were at a gas station in North Hollywood last night," said David. "We followed a suspect out of that gas station – we would like to know what you saw."

Mason flicked a nervous glance away from them, and then back. Colby silently applauded David's choice of words – without actually saying so, he implied that someone had actually seen Mason at the gas station. His statement had a definite effect.

David asked again, with an overly pleasant smile. "May we come in?"

Mason sighed, shrugged one shoulder. "Sure. I guess." He turned, and they followed him into the house.

It was a nice home, easily worth a couple of million at LA real estate prices. It was tastefully decorated, but was lacking any female touches – Mason was apparently single, and had undoubtedly hired an interior decorator. There was money here, to be sure – more money than the average charter pilot would make, Colby guessed. He made a mental note to dig into Mason's business dealings if he refused to cooperate. Maybe he could unearth a little leverage.

It turned out, they didn't need leverage. Mason deferred at first, saying he didn't know anyone named Tuttle when David brought up the name, but then David turned it up a notch.

"It would be an easy matter to see if you had made any last minute arrangements to fly out of Burbank last night," he said. "Not to mention checking your phone records to see if you made any calls last evening – more than likely to a prepaid cell phone – which, by the way, we will have no problem tracing to Tuttle." That last statement was true – and in fact was in progress – they had apprehended Tuttle's driver last evening in order to do the setup, and had confiscated the man's phone – which would undoubtedly have calls on it from Tuttle's cell phone, so they could get the number – even if it was a burner. LAPD was working on it as they spoke.

The last statement did the trick. Mason's shoulders sagged. "All right," he said, wearily. "Yes, Mr. Tuttle called me last evening, asked me to make a last minute trip – he wanted me to fly him to Barbados. I didn't ask why. I filed a last minute flight plan to Barbados, with a stop in Miami – using his private jet – you can check it out with Burbank. He told me he would meet me at the airport, but then he called me again en route and told me to meet him at the gas station you mentioned – he said we would take my car to the airport and that he would have a friend pick up his Maserati at the gas station."

David frowned. "We had people check – there's only one jet registered in Tuttle's name, and it's down at Long Beach."

Mason appeared undeterred. "This one's not registered in his name. He has it registered under a one of his businesses."

Colby almost said, "We checked that out too," because they had – there were no jets registered under Tuttle's _known_ businesses. It was possible Tuttle had registered it under a fake corporation name, however. Mason could be telling the truth – as far as he knew it.

David's smile had turned unpleasant. "And you just jumped through hoops – it was already nighttime when he called you and told you what – that you had to fly out within an hour or two – and you didn't think that it all seemed a little shady?"

Mason sighed. "Look, I'm a charter pilot, and I specialize in last minute flights. People decide to fly places – all kinds of places – at the drop of a hat. It might be business emergencies, love-life crises, surprise birthday presents – I don't ask, okay? They pay me, I fly 'em – I make sure they aren't carrying drugs or anything, and I fly 'em. It's all legit." His voice had risen righteously during his little speech, and Colby could see they were losing ground.

David did too, and he got to the point. "Okay, then, you were supposed to meet him at the gas station. Alone? Was there anyone else with you – or with him?"

Mason's face had gone stony. "No. At least there was no one with _me_ – I'm not sure about him. I pulled into the gas station and he was already there. He pulled out right away – real fast. At least, I think it was him. I didn't get a good look – it was dark, I was coming in pretty quick, and he suddenly backed out and peeled out of there. It was his car – he told me he was driving the red Maserati – I assume it was him in it."

David stared at him, and then looked at Colby, and Colby knew what he was thinking – was there someone else? Maybe Tuttle had asked someone besides Mason to meet him at the gas station – just in case things went bad. Or maybe he handed the keys off to some random street punk, and told him he could have the car if he could outrun the cops. Anything could have happened – none of it was very likely in the few seconds that Tuttle was out of their sight – but until they could rule out the remotest possibilities, they couldn't say for sure that it was Tuttle lying in that morgue.

Mason was eyeing them curiously. "There was an article in the paper this morning about a bad wreck up on Mulholland – a red Maserati. The paper said there was one unconfirmed fatality. That's what you're trying to find out, isn't it? Whether it's Tuttle or not."

David looked back at him. "That's confidential information. Don't go spreading it around – we'll know you leaked it. If anyone else contacts you about this we need to know right away." He handed Mason his card. "Call us immediately if you hear anything related to what happened last night. Make sure you don't hide anything – or we'll make sure your license gets reviewed."

Mason nodded, unimpressed. "Yeah, I got it. Look, if you guys are done, I gotta get over to the field. I've got a meeting with the maintenance crew – you can check that out too, if you want."

He saw them to the door. On the drive back downtown they were silent, and Colby stared out the window. A fog had settled in the valleys, seeping among the hills. Colby felt as though the mist, cold and gray, had settled on his soul.

**…**

End, Chapter 29


	30. Lost and Found

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 30: Lost and Found**

**…  
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Robin climbed stiffly out of her car and headed for the hospital entrance. She was showered, dressed, and fed, and had slept the sleep of the exhausted when she finally made it back home in the wee hours of the morning. She still felt awful, however; stiff, sore, tired – and, as she pushed through doors at the main hospital entrance, filled with anxiety at what she would find inside.

Amita was the first thing she found – asleep on a sofa in the lobby. Robin's heart leapt as she saw her – her first thought was that something horrible had happened, and that Amita had passed out from shock or grief. The fact that no one was causing a stir over an unconscious woman in the lobby immediately put that thought out of her mind, but a sense of unease still persisted – it seemed odd for Amita to sleep in such a public place.

Robin hurried forward, and as she sank onto the sofa cushion next to her, Amita stirred, and blinked. She had changed clothes, Robin noticed, so at some point she must at least have gone home and showered.

"Amita – are you okay?"

Amita's face was flushed, and her eyes were bright. "I – yes – no!" the last word ended in a wail, and her eyes filled with tears. "Robin, they won't let me see Charlie! I'm running a fever, they said – they won't let me in his room – or even up in the ICU. He might be dying – and I can't even see hi – him..."

The last words came out as hiccups, and she dissolved into tears, burying her face in her hands. She sounded too emotional, not quite rational, and as Robin smoothed a hand over her head, she felt heat – Amita _was _feverish.

"Did you get any sleep last night?"

"I - I went home and I got a shower and changed clothes – I tried to sleep for a little while, but I couldn't – I had to come back."

"Amita, you're burning up. You need to be in bed – or you'll end up like Charlie. You wouldn't want that – him getting better – and then you can't see him because you're too sick, right? Look, let's walk over to the ER and have someone check you out."

It took a half hour – Amita was checked in right away, and to Robin's surprise, almost immediately admitted to a hospital room. Her surprise was short-lived, however, as Dr. Shapiro poked his head into the room – Robin had picked up on the fact that he was unusually involved in his cases – no doubt he was behind Amita's quick processing. He motioned to Robin to step out.

"Ms. Brooks – how are you today?" Shapiro himself looked tired, but he spoke kindly, and his eyes seemed sharp as he searched Robin's face. Robin wondered if he'd gone home last night, himself.

"Okay – is Amita all right?"

"I'm admitting her as a precaution," said Shapiro. "My call. Considering how sick her fiancée is, and her recent captivity and the stress it might have placed on her system…"

He let the words trail off meaningfully. Robin didn't tell him that Amita hadn't even seen Charlie until the warehouse last evening – in fact, she had spent the last several weeks thousands of miles from him, in Europe, so her illness was much more likely to have come from someone on her flight home than it was from Charlie. Robin knew Shapiro was trying to do the best he could for Amita – to make sure she got good care, and at least get her in the same building with her fiancée. If it came down to it, and they were sure that Charlie wouldn't make it, they could rush Amita to his room to say good-bye…

The thought made her want to shudder, but she suppressed it, and tried to smile. "Thank you, doctor – I'm sure it will make her feel better to be in the same building with him."

He smiled back. His eyes registered that he understood that she knew he was bending some rules just a bit, but he didn't confess to ulterior motives – he politely stuck to his story. "That's a nice secondary outcome, but my primary concern is for her health. I do need to ask you something. Tell me if I'm intruding on your privacy here – but you and Don Eppes are close friends?"

She flushed, wondering what he was getting at. "Yes."

"I'm a little disturbed by his behavior. He seems to be having a very hard time with his brother's – condition – and I'm concerned that if the worst happens – well, I just think some additional support might help. He and his father are stretched to their limits. Visits from good people like you would help very much, but I was wondering if he has anyone he relies on – maybe a mentor, or a pastor…"

"His rabbi," said Robin. "Prior to the case, Don spent a lot of time trying to connect with his faith and spent hours with his rabbi. Then, however, the case took over – and his rabbi's son was shot – and Don –,"

Shapiro's jaw dropped. "Wait," he said. "You're talking about Aaron Shulman? He was Charlie's doctor. He was on staff here at the hospital."

Robin nodded. "The same. There was some speculation at the time that the apparent gang shooting that hit Aaron Shulman was really a hit intended for Don – they do look similar. The day that Aaron was shot, he had stopped by to see Don at his apartment – it is possible that the hit men mistook him for Don and followed him. One theory was that the hit was connected to the investigation – that maybe Don and Charlie were getting too close, but LAPD didn't come up with any specific evidence to confirm it." She sighed. "I think a lot of these events have added up – so many people have been hurt during the course of this investigation, and Don is blaming himself, somehow. I don't think he's talked to his rabbi since the shooting happened."

Shapiro frowned, thoughtfully. "Okay – I was just going to call whoever you suggested, but it sounds as though perhaps I should talk to Don first."

Robin held his gaze. "Don has a tendency to hold himself completely accountable – including things he can't possibly control. He may think he deserves this, somehow – and he may tell you 'no' if you ask him if he'd like to talk to his rabbi. You can ask him – but, I'm sure as a medical professional, you'll form your own opinion as to whether he needs help or not."

Shapiro smiled, and his eyes registered that he had picked up on her hint. "Thank you, counselor, for the advice."

"There is one more thing," said Robin, subconsciously glancing behind her at the door to Amita's room. "I haven't been up to talk to Don yet. I was wondering about Charlie – what I should expect…"

Shapiro's smile faded, just slightly. "He's still touch-and-go. He has actually improved slightly, according to his latest chest X-ray, but he's still very congested, and his oxygen levels are still low. The improvement is a good sign, but the longer it takes for the pneumonia to clear significantly; the worse his chances are. The fever, the low oxygen levels – it is very taxing on the body."

Robin frowned slightly. Was there more hidden meaning behind that statement? "I'm sorry, but I'm not sure what that means, exactly."

"The next forty-eight hours will be critical," said Shapiro, gently. "If he doesn't start to improve faster today; or at least by tomorrow, he will begin to run out of strength to fight."

Robin swallowed, feeling a pit in her stomach. "I see. Thank you, doctor." He nodded, and she watched him walk away down the hall.

**…**

Colby sighed, and ran a weary hand through his hair. He was alone in the office – the others had all taken a break and gone to the hospital to visit Don and to show their support for Charlie, even if they weren't allowed in the ICU. Before they had gone, Robin had called them from the hospital with a report – Charlie was slightly improved, but in spite of that, his prognosis still didn't sound promising. Alan had been discharged, but Amita had been admitted with a high fever. Larry Fleinhardt had shown up, fresh from recuperating from the flu himself, distraught that no one had called him. He had heard the story about the raid second-hand from a student who had heard a news report that morning about a joint police/FBI sting downtown. Curious, he had called Charlie – on both his home phone and his cell phone. When he got no answer at the Eppes residence, he called Don's number at the FBI offices, and when he didn't get an answer there, he began to panic, and didn't stop until he got hold of Wright and got the story. As Robin spoke to them on the speaker phone, they could hear him in the background, still complaining that no one had thought to call him.

And, back at the office, as a team, they were nowhere. Colby knew how much it meant to Don for them to bring in Tuttle – or if Tuttle was actually their burnt corpse, to prove it. He understood how desperately Don needed to feel that at least they'd succeeded in that – especially if Charlie didn't make it. Don was grasping for something – anything – to lend some meaning to the horrible turn of events.

Colby sighed again, tapped a pencil absently on the desk for a few seconds, then rose, and strode from the room. He couldn't sit here any longer – it was the reason he didn't go to the hospital. He hadn't wanted to sit there either, cooling his heels in a waiting room when he could be doing something – anything, to figure out who they had in that morgue. And the morgue seemed as good a place as any to start.

When he got there, Dr. Murphy was there, just puttering around – or so it seemed to Colby. He strolled in, glancing around – not really sure what he was looking for, and nodded at Murphy. "Hi – anything new?"

Murphy sighed, and pushed back from a microscope, and rubbed a hand over the top of his balding head. "No, I'm afraid not, agent. I was just checking the last sample of bone marrow – it's marginal at best. I can send it out, but we'll be lucky to get MT DNA."

Colby frowned. "I remember he looked pretty bad."

Murphy grimaced, rose, and plodded over to a covered form. Pulling the sheet back, he revealed what was left of the blackened body. It was curled on its side, as Colby remembered it, but part of the hip and upper leg lay in pieces from where Murphy had tried to extract unburned bone marrow for DNA testing. The skull rested separately from the body – with a hole where the mouth was – where Murphy had gone in looking for dental clues. A hand, missing a few fingers, also lay by itself – Colby recognized it as the hand that had come off at the scene, when they had tried to extract the body. The other hand was still on its arm, fingers curled, a blackened lump. Colby frowned.

"Why does the one hand have all of its fingers, and the other doesn't?" he asked. "Could the vic have been missing some fingers before the crash?"

Murphy shook his head. "Impossible to tell," he said. "It doesn't look as though the fingers broke off after they were burned, but with this much deformation, it's hard to tell definitively. It could be that the hand might have caught more of the blast when the vehicle exploded – maybe it was raised somehow, either consciously, or maybe just by virtue of how he was twisted in the wreckage. If the hand caught the brunt of the blast, some of the fingers could have been torn off. If so; they are now probably bits and pieces of charred material, mixed in with all the other charred material in the vehicle. The crime scene boys brought a box of that in. I haven't sifted through it in detail yet, but I gave it a preliminary review – there's nothing organic in there that isn't completely burnt, also. Nothing metal, either, according to the techs – no rings, no uniquely personal effects that would identify him. There were remnants of a watch and a cell phone – with no identifying marks on the watch, and the cell phone pretty much destroyed, and they found a handgun, which the lab boys are working on."

Colby shook his head. "Still not definite, even if the piece is in good enough shape to tell us it was the gun that Tuttle was holding when he shot Scarpelli. He could have left it in the vehicle to get rid of it, even if he'd given the car to someone else to drive." He rubbed his face. There was something else, something he was missing…

"Okay," he sighed. "How long for the samples to come back from DNA testing?"

"Ordinarily, it would take a couple of weeks, but Wright is crashing this one through the system – someone owes him a favor, apparently," said Murphy. "There are new profiling techniques that can give us a response in 12 hours, but the clearance to use those facilities needs to come from pretty high up, and we would only get one shot at it. I don't want to use up that favor on any old sample – I've been trying to get the best one I can. I think this last one is it – I'm going to send it out this afternoon, and they're waiting for it – gonna work tonight from what I understand. We should have something in the morning."

Colby tried to smile his thanks, but it came out a bit twisted with trepidation – by tomorrow morning, it would be done. He knew the samples would at best tell them that it_ might_ have been Tuttle – along with thousands of others – mitochondrial DNA was not the sure-fire indicator that full DNA was. That discouraging thought stayed with him all the way to his car – that they were on the verge of failure. He might as well give it up, and head to the hospital with the others.

He was halfway to the hospital when the thought occurred to him. He yanked out his cell phone, searched his contacts until he found the head of the crime scene unit, and dialed. "Hey, Roger – you guys still at the scene?" When he got an affirmative, he said, "Okay – don't let 'em drag that car up yet until I get out there – I don't want to trash the scene. I'm coming out with some help."

One more phone call later, he was headed northeast, back up toward Mulholland.

**…**

Don closed his eyes as Robin kissed him on the cheek, and then opened them again to watch her walk toward the doorway. His team and Sam Jarrett had already departed, and Larry Fleinhardt had managed to complain his way into being allowed to sit in the ICU with Charlie, even though he wasn't family. It was a good thing, because Alan had been discharged a short time ago. David had offered to drive Alan home to get some sleep, and Don had told David to tell his father he would go upstairs again to sit with Charlie. The guilt he felt was still in the way; difficult to overcome. Larry's offer gave him an excuse to extend his time in his room a little longer.

Robin turned at the door, and gave him a tired smile. "Try to get a little sleep," she suggested, "before you go up to see Charlie again. You look exhausted."

His face softened. The bruise on her cheek was fading, but it was a reminder of her own ordeal – and of his short-sightedness. He'd come close to destroying everyone close to him – because he couldn't see anything beyond bringing in Tuttle. He could feel sorrow and futility choking him, like a noxious cloud, and when he spoke, his voice was tight. "You do, too. Get some rest, yourself."

She nodded, and paused. "It's going to be okay, Don," she said. "I can feel it. Charlie's improvement is real – don't doubt it. You have to believe he's going to make it."

He just nodded, dumbly, because he couldn't find the conviction to voice agreement, and stared at the doorway, blankly, for long seconds after she had gone. He had finally blinked and turned his head away when there was a soft knock on the doorframe, and he looked back to see Dr. Shapiro poking his head in with a smile. He had stopped in earlier, just before Don's team got there, and hinted that it would be good for Don to talk with someone, such as his rabbi. Their conversation had been interrupted by the arrival of Don's team before he could tell Shapiro not to bother – the last person Don wanted to see was his rabbi. He'd impacted his life, too, by ruining the career of his son, Aaron. He hadn't wanted to admit it before now, but Charlie had undoubtedly been right – Aaron had been an innocent victim of a hit intended for Don. Aaron was just more collateral damage left along the trail of futility – futile because, as his team informed him, Don would probably never know if the victim in the car was Tuttle or not. "_And it doesn't even matter anymore_," he thought to himself. "_If Charlie doesn't make it, it won't matter at all_."

He jerked his thoughts back to his surroundings when Shapiro said, "I've got someone to see you."

Don opened his mouth, but the protest died on his lips – Shapiro was already gone – he hadn't waited for a reply. He had undoubtedly called Rabbi Shulman. Don swallowed, and steeled himself – prepared to see his rabbi appear in the doorway. The person who appeared instead made his jaw drop.

"Hello, Agent," said Aaron Shulman, softly. "May I come in?"

Don found his voice. "Yes, of course," he managed, and waved a hand awkwardly toward a seat near his bedside.

Shulman came forward, limping. His right arm hung, dead weight, from his shoulder, and he leaned heavily on a cane with his good arm. There was a bit of a scar on his forehead that ran back into his hairline – remnants of the incision from the surgery that had saved his life. His left eyelid drooped just a bit – but other than that, he looked far better than Don would have imagined – very much like his old self. He was walking and talking, and seemed to be at full mental capacity, even though he was limited, physically.

He sat slowly in the chair nearest the bed, one hand resting on the cane in front of him, and leaned forward a bit, regarding Don, and Don realized that there _was _something strikingly different about him. Aaron Shulman was smiling, and Don could read a deep expression of peace – no, more than just peace – of joy – in his eyes. It was a look his father, the rabbi, wore when he spoke passionately of his faith – a look one associated with wise men, with gurus, who had found nirvana in this life.

"My father sends his regrets at not coming when you asked, and wants you to know he will be here soon, but he sent me in his place in the meantime." Aaron's eyes crinkled at the corners. "A poor substitute, I know, but I had to come anyway. I wanted to see you myself, and to see Charlie."

Don didn't bother to tell him that he hadn't asked for the rabbi to come; he just nodded. He tried not look as uncomfortable as he felt – he felt as though guilt was oozing out of his pores – and when silence descended, he finally spoke. "I'm sorry, Aaron – I'm sorry for what happened to you."

Aaron lifted his good shoulder. "Why?"

Don shook his head, and looked down at his hands. "The men who shot you – we think they may have been after me. We look alike, you visited my apartment that day, and they mistook you for me." He looked up, sorrowfully. "Your disabilities – I ruined your career -,"

Aaron let his cane fall against his leg, and held up his good hand to stop him. "And a better blessing, I could not imagine. You see, as a result of leaving the medical profession, I have begun studying to be a rabbi – and as I study, I have learned what I have missed all these years, what I have taken for granted in my faith. It has power to heal, far beyond what our poor pitiful bodies can produce. I am finding a deep sense of peace, of satisfaction so profound that I can't describe it. I have found something priceless." The twinkle in his eyes deepened. "My father is ecstatic – his son is finally following in the family footsteps, and becoming a rabbi. And because I have already completed an advanced degree in medicine, the study I need to complete will be shortened – I can finish in three years or so. Time, however, is not an issue – the journey itself has been remarkable."

Don shook his head, at a loss for words, and Aaron continued, his face growing sober. "I understand that your brother is very ill, and that your father and other loved ones recently went through a horrible ordeal. I also understand from my friend Dr. Shapiro that you seem to be in a very bad place mentally – that you appear to be blaming yourself for these incidents." His voice rose slightly, and his eyes held Don's, fiercely. "You cannot. Do you understand? You cannot." His face relaxed slightly, but he continued his lecture. "We cannot know from day to day what God has in store for us. We must deal with it – and the outcome is what we make of it. Sometimes a horrible event spawns results that are good, even wonderful – look at me. It took losing the use of my arm for me to find my true calling. I have never been happier or more fulfilled – and had it not been for that shooting, I may never have known the greatest joy of my life."

Peace crept back into his face at that statement, but then his look became stern again, and he actually shook a finger at Don – an odd gesture in someone that of that generation – but it reminded Don uncannily of Aaron's father. "Get over yourself. To think that you orchestrated my fate – _anyone's_ fate – is beyond arrogant – don't you agree? You couldn't have predicted that the shooting would happen, and you could not have predicted how I would react. Those matters are in God's hands, not our pitiful human hands."

His face softened again, and the twinkle in his eyes reappeared. "Now that you have gotten a lecture along the lines of what my dad would have given you, I am just going to say simply – you cannot change what has happened, but you can change how you deal with it. Whether your brother lives or dies is out of your hands, and is not of your causing, either way. God sends us circumstances; it is up to us to decide what to do with them. We can be a positive force in our own lives, and in those around us, if we choose – and regret and guilt are not positive emotions. Guilt generates more guilt – think of the additional guilt you will feel if miss this opportunity to be with your brother, to lend him your love and your strength. To begin with, we must throw those negative thoughts out, so we can truly feel God's positive energy. Does that make sense to you?"

Don stared at him, trying to find his voice. He _wanted_ it to make sense – he wanted Aaron's statements to be true – more than nearly anything he could think of, except for Charlie's recovery. It was as if a drowning man had been thrown a life preserver, and Don seized it – perhaps not quite believing he had a good grip on it – but he took it, nevertheless. "Yes," he said hoarsely, his own voice filled with more emotion than he cared to convey. "It makes sense."

Aaron took a deep breath and smiled, and sat back in his chair. "Good. I always knew you were a smart guy. Good-looking, too," and his grin deepened.

Don found himself smiling back –with the first smile on his face in days.

**…**

Colby paced along the roadway, impatiently, glancing now and then into the gully, where the ruined wreck of the Maserati still lay. The crime scene technicians had gathered over by their vehicles and the tow truck; they were nearly done processing the scene and had been preparing to haul the vehicle up and tow it away when Colby stopped them. Their glances were speculative, and almost as impatient as Colby's; he was holding them up, and furthermore, he was questioning their thoroughness by calling in reinforcements – reinforcements that were really under their own jurisdiction.

There was the sound of tires on asphalt, and then a vehicle came around the curve. It pulled to the side in front of the other vehicles, and the driver stopped. He and the passenger got out, and then opened the rear doors for Colby's anticipated reinforcements. They jumped out and paced about excitedly, tongues hanging out, whining, as their handlers attached leashes. Cadaver dogs. The crime scene techs had walked forward to speak to their handlers, and Colby did also.

"We didn't ask for you guys," the tech in charge of the scene, Roger Almer, said to them, in answer to a question by one of the handlers. Almer nodded at Colby. "He did."

The handlers introduced themselves to Colby – Jerry Briggs and Jamie Nicks, and the one called Jerry Briggs said, "I thought there was only one body, and they pulled it from the vehicle."

"There is," said Almer. He looked irritated. "We already removed it from the scene. We searched the surrounding area – there is no sign of any other bodies."

"Maybe not bodies," said Colby, "but maybe body _parts_. I admit this is a long shot, but one of the hands on the vic was missing some fingers." He looked at Almer, and attempted to look appropriately apologetic, trying to appease him. "I realize you guys gathered up anything loose from the car's interior already, and the finger parts may be in what you gathered up - but what if those missing fingers were blown off and out of the vehicle? There might be some small bits of flesh that are still unburned out there." He waved vaguely at the tall grass and spotty shrubs that dotted the slope. "Murphy's got nothing but some marginal MT DNA – I thought it was worth a shot."

The irritation in Almer's face receded a bit, replaced by dawning comprehension, and he said, "We went over the area pretty thoroughly – but we were looking for bigger pieces. You could be right – there might be some really small bits that got blown out a window or something. The area close to the vehicle is pretty torched, though – if the pieces didn't go far, they probably got burned up anyway."

Nicks looked at Briggs, then at Almer. One of the dogs tugged at the leash in his hand. "Well, what do you think? Is it worth the effort?"

They all looked at Colby, and then Almer shrugged. "Sure – you guys are already here, and you heard the agent – Murphy's got squat. Let's do it."

Colby breathed a silent sigh of relief – he would have forced this if he had to, but it wasn't the smartest thing to piss off the crime scene folks, if it could be helped. Not to mention the fact that they would be more thorough if their hearts were in it.

He followed Nicks and Briggs and the dogs down the slope, trying to place his feet in their footsteps. At the bottom, they split, Briggs and one dog heading to the right of the vehicle, and Nicks and his dog heading to the left. There was no need to give the dogs anything of Tuttle's to sniff – they were simply looking for bits of decayed flesh, and the dogs' sensitive noses were trained for just that. They started out working the perimeter of the burned area, and then slowly made their way toward the bottom of the slope.

It was hot in the sun, and after forty minutes, Colby was drenched in sweat, his suit jacket was off and slung over his shoulder, and his anxiety level was starting to ratchet up. He was aware of the techs standing at the top of the hill, on the roadway looking down at them going over territory that the techs had already scoured. Maybe his bright idea wasn't such a hot one after all…

He had chosen to follow Nicks and his dog, and they were partway back up the slope, several yards from the vehicle, when the hound suddenly whined, and strained at his leash. He was snuffling at a clump of grass, and Nicks tightened his leash and pulled him aside, then bent and carefully parted the grass with a gloved hand, and pulled up a sliver of something – rubbery-looking, about a half inch long – dead white on one side with a charred edge on one side and pink on the other. An ant crawled along its length, and Nicks shook it off. "It looks like I got something here," he announced loudly, and Briggs swung his dog about and paused, watching.

Nicks held out an evidence baggy, and Colby held it open for him as he carefully dropped in the piece. Colby stared at it through the cellophane, excitement mounting in his chest. It sure looked like a piece of flesh – hopefully human, but he had hardly time to process it when the dog started whining louder, straining at its leash. Nicks gave it some slack, and the dog moved forward about a yard to another hillock of grass, and let out a yelp. Nicks stepped forward, bent and retrieved something – quite a bit bigger this time, and held it up with grin. "Bingo!" he yelled, for the benefit of the guys at the top. "We found a partial - looks like a finger!"

Colby stared at it – it was hard to see at first what it was, but then he made out a knuckle, with a few small shards of glass protruding from it. It was a piece of finger alright – the tip was missing, so no prints – but it was definitely human and a sizable unburned sample – perfect for DNA. He was still holding the baggy, and he fumbled for his cell phone one-handed, flipped it open and dialed. "Hey Doc," he said, when Murphy answered on the other end. "Hold up your sample – don't send it. We just got you a better one."

**…**

Charlie struggled up out of the gray fog that he seemed to be immersed in, and opened his eyes. He blinked once or twice, trying to focus as best he could, and looked toward his bedside, expecting his father, or Larry. Instead, his brother sat there, by himself – in a wheelchair still, but closer than before – Charlie could see him better. "Don," he whispered.

Don leaned forward, and Charlie realized – dimly – he still wasn't thinking straight – that the mask on his face muffled the sound of his whispers. He forced a hand upward and dragged it away from his face, pulling it down to his jawline so his mouth was free.

Don reached out to stop him. "No, Charlie – you need to leave that on," but Charlie waved his hand aside, weakly, and rubbed at the spot around his where the mask had been resting on his face. There was a question he needed to ask, even though he could barely process enough air to breathe, much less speak.

"Amita?"

"She's -," Don hesitated just a moment, but it was enough to tell Charlie what he needed to know. "She's fine, Charlie – she wasn't hurt but she's – resting. You need to rest, too, and get that mask back on." Don reached over and gently pulled it back up over his mouth.

Charlie let him, and closed his eyes. The mask would help cover the expression that he knew must be on his face. The sense of bitter sadness and disappointment pierced even the thick fog that clouded his rational thought. Amita wasn't here because she chose not to be – Don's hesitation told the story. Charlie knew he was very ill – his oxygen-deprived brain had pieced that much together. The fact that his injured father and brother were constantly by his side - in wheelchairs – insinuated how grave his condition must be. He had wondered at first if only family was allowed – the thought gave him hope. Maybe Amita hadn't been there because she wasn't officially 'family'. But then, that afternoon, Larry had come up to sit with him – rambling on and on, a little too brightly – so visitors apparently weren't restricted to only family. Charlie had been glad to see him, but Larry's forced cheerfulness had been exhausting – and disturbing. Put all of it together, and… well, it just seemed that if Amita really was fine, as Don had said, and if she cared at all, she would be here, especially now. Her absence made it painfully clear – she was done with the relationship.

'_And who could blame her?_' thought Charlie, sadly. She hadn't wanted him to continue with consulting, to continue to be involved in solving crimes, in part because she couldn't stand the anxiety of him being so close to criminal elements – and she had come to home a _kidnapping,_ of all things – her own. If she hadn't made up her mind about their relationship before, that had to have done it for her – and she was obviously right. She had been put in danger – again – and it had been his fault. He had lost the love of his life – and he had no grounds for argument anymore. It was no use in trying to persuade her, after this, even if he managed to live through this illness. In fact, maybe it would be better if he didn't survive it. He wasn't sure he had the strength to face life without her. _It's over; I've lost her…_ He felt himself drifting off again, the blackness coming up to meet him, and this time he didn't fight it; he let it come.

**…**

End, Chapter 30


	31. Lab Results

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 31: Lab Results**

**…  
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"Mr. Eppes. Agent Eppes."

Don stirred and blinked in his chair, grunting in pain as he straightened his neck, stiff from the weight of his head, which was hanging over his chest. He jerked upright suddenly as he realized where he was – Charlie's room in the ICU – _something must be wrong_, he thought wildly. He pushed himself up in his chair to get a better look at his brother, and then inhaled audibly; a quick intake of breath as pain shot through his injured arm. Charlie appeared to be sleeping.

"Easy there." The woman at his side spoke soothingly. "It's okay. I just wanted you to know we were going to send you back down to your room. Dr. Shapiro called to check on you. You've been up here for hours – it's nearly midnight. You're due for a walk after sitting in the chair all that time, and then you need to get in bed."

Don looked at Charlie. "I can't." The words came out slurred with fatigue, and he swallowed and tried to speak more clearly. "Someone needs to stay with him."

"Dr. Shapiro told me you would say that. He said you're a patient, too, and you haven't been discharged, yet, so you need to follow his orders. The staff up here understands that they are to come wake you if anything changes. Please agent, don't make this hard on me. Your brother's sleeping, and you should be, too."

Don rubbed his face, hesitating, and looked at Charlie. He did appear to be sound asleep – and it was no wonder; he had fought through two horrible choking episodes earlier in the evening. Don frowned. Was it his imagination, or did Charlie appear a little more flushed? And he seemed to be working a bit harder to breathe, or maybe it was just the deep breathing of sleep… He glanced at Charlie's monitor, and felt a little pang of unease. "His temperature's up."

The nurse's eyes darted toward the monitor, then away. "We know. We've called his doctor to let him know – although it's normal for it to fluctuate in a situation like this. We're waiting for instructions – although I doubt they will tell us to do more than to keep an eye on it, which we're doing anyway." She smiled at him. "I promise; we will call you if anything happens. If you don't get some sleep, you'll be too tired to visit him tomorrow- when _he'll_ probably be awake and looking for visitors."

Don sighed. He _was_ exhausted; and stiff from sitting in the wheelchair for that long – and Charlie sure didn't appear likely to wake up soon. "Okay. For a few hours, anyway."

The nurse gave him a light pat on his shoulder. "Good. There's an orderly right down the hall – I'll call him to come get you."

Don barely remembered the trip down in the elevator, his head nodding again as the orderly pushed him down the hallway to his room. As they came around a corner, however, his head came up; two familiar figures lounging in chairs stood up as he approached – Colby Granger and David Sinclair.

Suddenly alert, Don searched their faces. Something must be going on for them to be there so late at night. "What's up?"

David shot a look at the orderly, then at Don, but didn't answer his question directly. Instead David said, "Long night, huh? Let's let this guy get you in your room. We won't keep you – we just wanted to give you a quick update. How's Charlie?"

Don hesitated. "About the same."

The orderly wheeled the chair into his room, and swung it around so he could face his visitors. Don shot a glance upward at him. "I'm good – these guys will put the chair out in the hall when we're done." The fact was, it was a slow and not necessarily graceful process to get out of the chair with his injured leg and arm – the less witnesses the better. And more to the point, performing the maneuver would make him wait longer for the news – whatever it was.

He waited impatiently for the orderly to leave, and looked at Sinclair and Granger expectantly. "We've got a sample," said Sinclair. He looked at Granger. "Or actually, Colby did."

Colby tried to look modest, but couldn't conceal his excitement. "I was in the lab this afternoon, and was looking at the vic's hands. One of them was missing some fingers, and Murphy couldn't say whether they were burned off or had been blown off by the explosion. I called in some cadaver dogs at the scene, and sure enough, they came up with an unburned partial finger, several yards away from the vehicle. It had glass embedded in it – must have been blown out through a window or the rear windshield. I got it to Murphy, and he got it to the lab tonight."

Don nodded, feeling a bit of vertigo, as if he was standing on the edge of a cliff. Finally, they would know for sure – for better or for worse. "So we'll know in – what – three days or so, if it's him? How long are they saying?"

"Tomorrow," said Colby. "There are new techniques and equipment that can speed testing up to 12 hours – not too many labs have them, and we just got one here."

Don shook his head. "I know – I know about the new lab – but the backlog makes it almost quicker to crash it through the regular lab."

Sinclair spoke up. "Wright must know someone there. He called in a favor. We only get one shot at it, so it's a good thing Murphy hadn't handed in a burnt up sample. Colby stopped him in time. We've got a good sample now, and it's on the fast track, thanks to Granger."

Colby flushed a little, pleased at the compliment, and it reminded Don that the two of them hadn't been on great terms not so long ago – it felt good, like old times to see them back again, working as partners. Colby spoke up. "Unfortunately, it wasn't a whole finger – no way to get prints."

"But full DNA is more accurate than a print, if you have DNA to compare it to," Don pointed out. "And we've got that."

Colby nodded. "Samples from his brush, toothbrush, and electric razor – all legally obtained by warrant."

"Good," said Don. "Anything else?"

Sinclair shook his head. "I told you earlier we had one of his men in custody, Spike Johnson, and the other two died in the gunfire at the warehouse – of course, you know that." Don knew one of the men he was referring to was Paully Manorelli, who Colby had shot, and the memory suddenly resurfaced – the helpless feeling as his own gun skidded across the floor; and Manorelli in front of him raising his gun, pointing at Charlie's unconscious form, the muzzle aligning with his head…

David was still talking, and Don blinked. "…Johnson already coughed up everything he knows. If it_ isn't_ Tuttle in that wreck and he's still alive, when we bring him in, we'll have no problem convicting him." Sinclair paused and looked at him. "You look pretty beat. We'll get out of here – we'll let you know the DNA results as soon as they come in. They're working through the night on it – we'll have them by late morning."

Don nodded. "I may be upstairs with Charlie again in the morning. If I'm not here, find me."

They nodded back. "Better get some rest," said Colby, as he passed by.

Don watched them go and sat for a minute, then slowly pushed himself out of his chair with a grunt of pain. He was halfway to his bed when he the voice of a nurse behind him. "You know better than to walk without your crutches. Speaking of crutches – here they are." She grabbed them from the corner and handed them to him. "Not so fast, buster. You're taking a little trip down the hall – you need to move a little – get your circulation going in your legs, or you'll be dealing with blood clots. Then you can use the can, and get to bed. You need your sleep – you start therapy tomorrow."

Don groaned, but couldn't even muster a retort. He was bone tired, and his arm and hip were throbbing. He felt overwhelmed – with the knowledge of the impending DNA find and with worry over Charlie's condition. He managed the trek down the hall and to the bathroom in silence, and fell into bed, dropping off almost immediately. And in his dreams, he was standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down – into what, he couldn't quite see.

**…**

Amita stared at the steaming cup of tea on her tray the next morning, as if she were trying to see omens in the cup. She blinked as footsteps sounded in her doorway, and looked up to see Dr. Shapiro, moving briskly toward her beside. He caught up her chart from the foot of her bed. "Good morning, Dr. Ramanujan. How are you?"

"I feel better." Her voice came out as a croak, belying her words. "I really don't think I need to be in here."

Dr. Shapiro looked at her with a sympathetic smile, and dropped his voice conspiratorially. "Between you and I, doctor, I agree with you. Your temperature's down a bit, and you could probably be convalescing at home. However, I know you won't go home – from what I understand from your friend Ms. Brooks, you'll probably stay here, and forego the rest you should be getting to kick this. If it is the same flu that Dr. Eppes has, you should know that it is nothing to take lightly. Even if it's not, it's not in the best interests of the hospital or its patients to have you go wandering around the place, spewing germs. For your own good, and everyone else's, you should probably stay here. If you promised me you would go home, I might agree to discharge you."

Amita felt tears and frustration begin to well up, and they bubbled over into her voice. "You know I can't go home – not with Charlie -,"

Shapiro finished the statement, gently. "In his current condition? I understand. I understand why you would want to be here – I'd probably do the same thing. That's why I admitted you – it was the only way I could see to let you stay on the grounds and still live with my conscience. I have other patients to consider, also. Of course, I have the right to tell you to leave the premises, but I didn't want to do that to you."

She swallowed, still trying to force down tears, knowing she should be grateful for what he was doing for her, but the frustration of not being able to see Charlie and the fear over his condition was nearly overwhelming. "Have you seen Charlie this morning? How is he?"

"I haven't seen him yet," said Shapiro smoothly. "I was heading up there next."

Amita's forehead puckered, anxiously, and her eyes searched his face. "Is he getting any better – what do you think?"

"There was slight improvement as of yesterday evening," replied Shapiro. "I'll know more when I see him this morning."

It was a non-answer. He had dodged her question twice now, and that was alarming in itself. A lump was rising in her throat. "Do you - ," she hesitated, "Do you know if he's asked for me?"

This time, his response was not as smooth, or as automatic. He paused, and then said, "Not to my knowledge. Of course, I haven't been at his side all of the time – his father or brother might be able to tell you better. I can ask them, if you want."

"No," she said hastily, feeling her heart drop. "Thank you, though." It was clear that Shapiro knew more than he was letting on, and he was smoothing over it to make her feel better. In spite of his words, she got the distinct impression that Charlie hadn't been improving, and just as distressing, he had no desire to see her. She understood that Shapiro was trying to help, however – she suspected that if the unthinkable happened and they felt Charlie wouldn't make it, that Shapiro would let her in to see him to say good-bye. She knew that with her illness they wouldn't allow that unless they were absolutely certain he wouldn't recover. So, the fact that Shapiro hadn't told her she could go to the ICU was probably a good thing. Of course, Charlie could have told them explicitly that he didn't want her there…

Shapiro was talking again as he initialed her chart, and she tried to concentrate on what he was saying. "…all in all, you're doing well. Forty-eight hours after your fever subsides, it should be safe for you to visit him. Get some rest and try to take in all the fluids they bring you. I'll check on you later."

She nodded, dumbly, and watched him in despondence, as he walked out the door.

**…**

Don fidgeted in his wheelchair on the way up in the elevator. It was already ten a.m. – he had wanted to go back to see Charlie at four a.m., but exhausted, he had slept until six – and it hadn't mattered anyway, because the hospital staff refused to let him go until he had eaten breakfast and gone for his first therapy session, which had been scheduled for eight-thirty. Don had endured another round of hospital food and a painful therapy session only because one of the nurses called up to check on Charlie for him, and had found that Alan was back at the hospital, as of seven that morning. The therapy session, which consisted of stretching and some limited walking and very shallow knee bends, was all the more painful because Don refused the pain medication they recommended before the session. He wanted to stay sharp for two reasons – so he could be all there for Charlie, and so he could think straight when he got the news that Colby and David would bring him later that morning concerning the autopsy on the burn victim in the car. Although he had now been given the green light to hobble for short distances without his crutches, the ICU was considered too far, so he was stuck in the hated wheelchair for the ride up.

Up on the ICU floor, he noticed that Dr. Shapiro was there, huddled over some charts with two other doctors. One was Doctor Forster, Charlie's lung specialist, and the other was a shorter balding man that Don hadn't seen before. He craned his neck as the orderly wheeled him past, trying to read their expressions. Of course, he told himself as he turned back around in the chair, there were patients in the ICU other than Charlie. Just because a group of doctors were conferring with grim faces was no real cause for alarm…

He found his father sitting in chair next to Charlie's bedside, his knee with the bulky air brace stretched out in front of him, his crutches in a corner. "Hey, Dad."

Alan's face, which looked tight with worry, softened at the sight of him. "Donny. You look tired. They said you were here late last night."

"I'm fine," Don assured him. "I slept in longer than I wanted to this morning – and then they made me go for a therapy session. How's Charlie?" He looked toward his brother. Charlie looked the same as he had left him; still lying on his back with his upper body slightly elevated by the slant of the bed, the oxygen mask still over his face. His chest was working – up, down – too fast.

Alan's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure. His temperature is up, but at least he hasn't had any of those horrible choking spells this morning. He hasn't woken at all. They took another X-ray this morning – and blood work. There was another doctor in this morning with Forster – another lung specialist named Perkins."

Don stared at him. So the group of doctors conferring at the nurses' station _were_ all there for Charlie – surely that wasn't a good sign, and neither was additional blood work. He could see in Alan's face that his father was worried too. "So -," he said carefully, "what did they say?"

Alan shrugged, as if trying to shrug off the fear that Don could see etched in his features. "Nothing yet. Dr. Shapiro said that as soon as the lab work came back, he'd come in with a report."

As if on cue, the orderly that had wheeled Don upstairs appeared in the doorway. "Doctor Shapiro would like to see you both." He stepped forward, grabbed Alan's crutches and handed them to him, and took hold of Don's wheelchair. "We're just going a short distance down the hall."

Don felt his heart drop, and watched his father anxiously as he crutched his way down the hallway. He was half expecting Alan to keel over from the stress, but his father worked the crutches briskly, and had a look of stubborn grimness on his face. Don imagined that must have been the way Alan had looked when he was taking on Tuttle, and in the midst of a fog of anxiety, he felt a flash of pride.

They gathered in a small recess in the hallway that held a cluster of chairs, normally a waiting area, although it was empty this morning. The orderly wheeled Don in and stepped respectfully away as Alan sank into a chair. Shapiro was waiting there, along with Doctor Forster and the doctor Alan had said was named Perkins. Forster took the lead, and after nods at each of them, said, "There are some changes in your brother's condition that we'd like to discuss with you. Yesterday, we were reasonably optimistic that he was making progress. His temperature was declining steadily, and periodic X-rays of his lungs showed what appeared to be less fluid. Those choking spells, while frightening, were actually a good thing; he was clearing phlegm from his lungs. His blood oxygen levels were remaining at a reasonable level. Last night, however, that began to change. His temperature started going back up, and the chest X-ray we took early this morning showed that the slight improvement we saw yesterday is gone. I suspected a secondary bacterial infection – which is not uncommon in these cases – and ordered a blood test. The lab results just came back, and they confirmed that in additional to the viral pneumonia that he is fighting, he has a bacterial infection, that was not present in his initial lab work. I have called in Doctor Perkins, who is an expert in those kinds of infections, to recommend a course of treatment, and we are going to add some relatively strong antibiotics to Charlie's IV."

There was a pause, and Don and Alan both stared at him in the silence. Alan finally broke it. "So what does this mean?"

Forster exchanged a glance with his colleagues. Their faces were grave. Forster cleared his throat. "Charlie was in serious condition before this. Obviously, this is a set-back, which reduces his chance of recovery significantly. I am not going to say he is at the point yet where death is imminent – or even certain. However, the next twelve hours or so will be critical. We are going to watch closely for signs that the antibiotic is working. His temperature is an indicator of that, and so are his blood oxygen levels. With the additional oxygen we are giving him, they are hovering at an acceptable level, but if they start to decrease further, he will go downhill quickly. If his oxygen levels decrease too much, his brain and his systems will start to shut down, and then it will just be a matter of hours. I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, but I do want you to have the truth. The fact that he has made little progress to date and is now fighting a new infection – well, it would not be fair to you if I did not let you know that his chances of surviving this are slight, particularly if there is no progress within the next several hours. You need to think about who might want to see him before he goes, and make sure they are somewhere you can get in touch with them, in case we get to that point. We are going to relax restrictions on who is allowed in to see him today, so non-family members will have no problem getting access – they will just need to sign in with the nurse."

Don continued to stare at him, his head spinning with shock and disbelief. As bad as his brother's condition was, there was always a piece of Don's mind that refused to believe that Charlie wouldn't recover. The man was telling them that this was it – that barring some unexpected turn-around, Charlie would die within hours. Alan looked gray, and appeared stricken silent by the news.

The three doctors looked at them with sympathy, and Dr. Shapiro spoke up, his tone resolute. "That being said, if anyone can save your brother, these two men can. We've seen dramatic results from the antibiotics that are being used. You need to stay strong – and optimistic – until we tell you otherwise." He paused and added quietly, "If you don't have any questions, you are free to go back to him now." He raised his hand to summon the orderly.

The man stepped forward to wheel Don back to his room, but Alan didn't attempt to rise from his chair. Although his hand was on his crutches, he remained seated, just staring forward. "I think I'll just sit here for a moment," he said hoarsely, and the doctors nodded respectfully and moved off. As Don was wheeled down the a hall, he stared at his father until he couldn't see him anymore, and the weight on his chest made him feel just like Charlie – as though he couldn't breathe.

The orderly left him in Charlie's room, and Don pulled his wheelchair forward until he was right next to the bed, and just sat there, staring at his brother sadly. Charlie already looked as though he was in a different place, far away – except for the rise and fall of his chest, he was so still, so pale. "I'm sorry, Charlie," Don whispered.

He had been there only a few minutes when there was the sound of footsteps in the hallway and a soft knock on the doorframe. He turned to see his team – all of them – Colby, David, Liz and Nikki – standing in the door. They looked stunned, worried, and David spoke in uncharacteristically choppy, halting sentences. "We came to visit – thought we would find you downstairs. We got the lab results back. They told us you were up here. We weren't sure if they would let us up, but we thought you needed to hear this. I guess – well, they let us up here, and – we just talked to Alan. I'm sorry, Don." His eyes went to Charlie.

The rest of them were staring at Charlie also, and Nikki – tough, street-smart Nikki – wiped savagely at a tear. David took a breath. "Anyway, we came to tell you, the lab results came in. It was conclusive – it was J. Everett Tuttle in the car. He's gone, Don."

Don nodded, and managed to force his voice out over the lump in his throat. "I appreciate you coming to tell me in person." He felt bad for them, too – they had obviously all come to celebrate the news that they had finally gotten Tuttle, and had been met with the news of Charlie's dire condition instead.

Colby's blue eyes were troubled. He said nothing, but he stepped forward, past Don, to Charlie's bedside, and gave Charlie's curled, slack hand a gentle fist-bump. "Hang in there, Whiz Kid," he murmured, and then gave Don's good shoulder a squeeze on the way back out.

Liz cleared her throat and spoke. "We're going to head out, Don – but we'll all be around – we'll be back later to visit. Robin's downstairs, waiting for you. She hasn't heard yet. I'll send her up."

"Thanks." Don's voice was as hoarse as his father's – it seemed to be failing him. He gave them a nod, and they filed away, silently.

He turned back to Charlie, and reached for his hand. Two sets of lab results – Charlie's and Tuttle's - and the one that Don had wanted so badly meant nothing anymore, completely negated by another set of lab results that he hadn't even foreseen. It wasn't fair – after everything that had happened, after all that they both had endured…

He looked at his brother, and reached over and squeezed his hand. "We got him, Buddy," he whispered, his voice breaking. "We got him." And then he bowed his head, and let the tears run down his face.

**…**

End, Chapter 31


	32. I Hope You're Right

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 32: I Hope You're Right**

**…  
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Robin perched on the edge of Don's hospital bed and studied him. He was sitting up in a wheelchair, glaring at the door, begrudging every minute he couldn't be with his brother. She didn't really blame him — but she tried to distract him anyway.

"So," she began, clearing her throat. "I was talking to Alan this morning when I drove him in for his appointment with the orthopedic specialist." She smiled. "By the way, it was very nice of Aaron Shulman to arrange a consult with Dr. Chambers. Now that Aaron…isn't practicing, I understand Dr. Chambers is one of the best in the country, and he's right here in L.A. — and one of Aaron's ex-partners! That worked out well."

Don grunted in assent, but formed no actual words. Robin continued.

"So anyway, we decided that I'll be moving into the Craftsman for a few weeks. Alan's in no shape to take care of himself, let alone two recovering sons, as well."

"Or even one," Don muttered darkly.

Robin ignored him. "And if Dr. Chambers recommends surgery on Alan's knee…well, he's just got to have some help, that's all. I can take some vacation time — I have a month saved up — and I'm due a few weeks of PTO as well. Maybe when she's better, Amita can help also. She was practically living there already, before she went to Switzerland. I'll talk to her about it when I visit her later."

Don glanced at his watch. "The damn therapist is late. Just take me up to Charlie's room."

Robin sighed, checking her own watch. "If anything, I'll just take you to the therapy room myself. Besides, he's only 37 seconds late."

Don shot her a withering look. "Come on, Rob — he had his chance, and he missed his appointment. You know Charlie is up there alone! Dad is with Chambers, Amita is still off the visitors' list, and Larry is at Cal Sci!"

Robin ignored him. "Larry! That's right, I meant to tell you — Larry will stay at the house for a while too. He'll be gone during the day, of course, but he'll help out in the evenings."

Don snorted. "Nurse Larry? I'm just not seeing it."

Robin chuckled. "I can send him to the store for things. He can play chess with Charlie, when he's strong enough."

An expression of such longing came over Don's face that Robin couldn't stop herself; she rose from the bed and crossed the few feet to the chair, where she leaned over to kiss him gently. Eventually she pulled away slightly, resting her dark head against his. "He will, you know," she whispered into his ear. "Charlie will find his strength. He would never leave you. Never."

Don closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. "I hope you're right," he whispered in return. "God, Rob, I hope you're right."

**...**

Alan blinked.

He was sitting in a consultation room, braced knee elevated and resting on another chair. He scowled at his leg, as if it had betrayed him, then looked back at Dr. Chambers. "Well, that's not possible right now. I simply can't have surgery until my sons come home." He leaned forward as much as he could, and added a fierce coda. "_Both_ of them."

Bill Chambers had talked to Aaron Shulman, as well as Dr. Shapiro — he knew how unlikely that scenario was. Still, he tried to be gentle. "Mr. Eppes, the surgery is really not an option. Your knee will not get better without it."

"I said, not right now," said Alan firmly. "Can't you just wait a few weeks?"

Dr. Chambers sighed. "Whenever you have the procedure, Mr. Eppes, you'll need some help at home for a while. It's likely that your recent bout with the flu, as well as your age, will qualify you as a high risk patient. The surgery is generally a day procedure, but we would probably admit you for one night. So if your sons are home recovering, you wouldn't be available to help them, either; you can't do a lot on your crutches as it is, can you?"

"More than you'd think," Alan sputtered. "Besides, Don's fiancée Robin will be moving in to take care of all of us — she's taking vacation time. Charlie's...girlfriend might come as well, and his best friend Larry will be around in the evenings. We have other friends — Don's team, from the FBI; my former business partner Stan and his wife; we'll have a houseful. Don't worry about that."

Chambers nodded. "Good. That's good. Sounds like you have a strong support system."

"We have a _**family**_," Alan answered proudly. "As soon as my boys are home, Robin and Larry will move in, and I'll schedule the surgery." He struggled to lift his braced leg from the chair and gather his crutches at the same time. "Right now, I've got to get upstairs. I'm sure Charlie will be better with this new antibiotic."

The doctor stood to shake Alan's hand before he struggled out of the chair. Chambers thought about Aaron Shulman's phone call a few days ago; his ex-partner had been shot in the head. He had been temporarily blinded, had lost his career, and was still grievously altered physically. Yet in all these months, Aaron had not asked him for anything — until he asked for this. The entire Eppes family obviously meant a great deal to him. Chambers gripped Alan's hand solidly, and offered him a sincere smile. "I hope you're right, Mr. Eppes. Truly, I hope you're right."

**...**

Amita picked at threads on her blanket and refused to meet Robin's eyes. "I'm not sure it's a good idea for me to move into the house," she said quietly. "Charlie hasn't even asked for me, has he?"

Robin hedged. "It's not like he's been in a position to ask for much of anything," she pointed out. "Most of the time I see him, he's sleeping soundly."

"But he's not in a coma," Amita argued, finally looking at Robin. "He wakes up sometimes, and recognizes Don and Alan — Alan told me."

"Maybe someone told him that you've been ill," Robin answered. "Maybe he knows you can't come to see him."

"Then he would ask how I am," Amita said immediately. She blushed, and dropped her gaze to the blanket again. "At least he _would_ have, before. Before I threw everything away and ran off to Switzerland."

"Amita, he's very sick," Robin pointed out. "I mean, Alan is sitting there in a knee brace, and Don is in a wheelchair, and I don't think Charlie has asked about them, either. Sure, he recognizes them and tries to smile, sometimes — but I'm not sure you understand just how sick he's been."

Amita looked at Robin, again. "Of course I don't understand," she wailed. "I can't get in to see him!"

Robin approached the bed and lay one hand on top of Amita's, stilling the nervous picking action. "I know it's difficult," she said quietly. "If I couldn't see Don right now, I'd be out of my mind with worry."

Amita sniffed. "_I am_," she wailed. I'm worried that I'll never get a chance to tell him how wrong I've been, how lucky I was to be loved by him…"

Robin squeezed her hand. "You will," she promised. "Charlie will get better, and he'll ask for you. He still loves you, I know he does."

Amita sniffed again. "I hope so," she whispered brokenly. "Oh, Robin, I hope you're right!"

**...**

Colby Granger drew himself up to his full height, and dropped the file on Assistant Director Wright's desk. "This is all the stuff Sam's collected," he said. "Phil — Assistant Director — I've looked through the file, and there's definitely something hinky going on. Sam Jarrett lost his job, his career, his reputation…I'd like to use my vacation time, go to Idaho to look into this situation. Sam's done a lot for us. A lot."

Wright fingered the file, opened it, but did not even glance at its contents. "I'll study this information," he said, "and I'll have my secretary make copies of everything and fax it to the Task Force."

Colby didn't seem to register what Wright had said. "I know we're short-handed, with Don out," he argued, "but I talked to Dave, and he's with me on this. He'd like to go along, but he volunteered to stay here and head the team. We can bulk up the team with Sanderson; he's worked with us before, and that's his job as a floater — to cover for vacations."

"Sanderson has been assigned to Martin's team for the next two weeks," said Wright. "After that, he's due for some vacation time himself. Besides, the Task Force will be in Idaho by the end of the week."

This time, Colby heard. He frowned. "What Task Force?"

Wright tried to suppress his smile, but a small grin escaped. "Specialized unit based in D.C. — investigates election fraud and potential police corruption; it's sometimes difficult for a state to fairly and expediently investigate itself. It's a very elite group. I had to call in a few favors to get them at all — a few more to get them right away. They're going to look into how that money got mysteriously transferred to Sam's friend. If they can find out, they can clear his friend's name – and by extension, Sam's name."

"But…" Colby was confused. "How…"

Wright took pity on the young agent. "Agent Eppes asked me to do what I could for Sheriff Jarrett. He feels he owes the man his life, and Dr. Eppes' life. I happen to think he's right. This is the sort of situation that favors are for."

Colby sighed and grinned at the A.D. "You let me twist in the wind long enough." Wright returned his smile, and Colby started to turn to leave the office. Then he stopped. "Wait," he said. "Are these the guys who took down the syndicate within the Philadelphia police force last year?"

Wright nodded. "The very same."

Colby's grin blossomed into a full-out smile. "That's great, then! I just read about that unit in last month's Bureau magazine — those guys will have Sam back in office in no time!"

Wright nodded again. "That's the assumption," he confirmed. Then he frowned and looked at Colby warningly. "Agent Granger, this is on a need-to-know basis. One reason this unit is so successful is because they tend to operate quietly, yet effectively. Don't tell our friend Sam to start packing, just yet — but personally, I hope you're right."

**...**

By the time Don finished his therapy session and found an orderly who could push him to Charlie's room, Alan was already there, sitting in one chair, his braced leg propped on another chair. Alan smiled as Don entered the room, and waited for the orderly to leave. "How was therapy?" he asked as the young man exited the room.

Don wheeled himself an inch closer to Charlie's bed than the orderly had parked him. He answered his father, but watched his sleeping brother. "It sucked; but I think that's what they're going for. You'll find out soon enough."

Alan chuckled softly. "I suppose so. Dr. Chambers says I have to have surgery — but I'm waiting until you're both home where you belong."

Don frowned. He thought of several responses to that, but decided to bypass them all and change the subject. "How long have you been here?"

Alan glanced at the clock on the wall. "About 20 minutes. Robin was here when I arrived — she just left. Apparently, Amita swore some kind of blood oath to Dr. Shapiro, so he's signing her release papers this evening. Robin is going over to Amita's apartment this afternoon — stock up on groceries, make sure the students who sublet the apartment didn't trash the place — the poor girl never even got home before she was taken by Tuttle's men. Anyway, then Robin will come back to the hospital, check in on all of us, then give Amita and I both rides home. I wish Amita would stay at the house with us. I asked her to, but she said she's just not comfortable doing that until she can talk to Charlie." He sighed. "The two of them. Oy. But I suppose she's right — Charlie certainly doesn't need any added stress right now."

Don hadn't paid much attention to Alan's soliloquy. "Has he been awake?"

Now he was listening for the answer, but Alan's voice became so low he could barely hear it. "No."

Don slumped in his chair, dejected. He sighed and tipped his head back, his line of sight taking in the vitals' monitor over Charlie's bed. He squinted, then sat bolt upright in the chair. "Dad!"

Alan started, then winced. "What? What is it?"

"Look at the monitor," Don instructed. "Isn't everything…_better_…than it was last night? Slower pulse, higher blood oxygen, lower temp?" He glanced again at his brother, who still seemed to be struggling to breathe. "Maybe I'm imagining things," he mumbled. "It's just me. Wishing he was better."

Now Alan was leaning forward over his propped leg, squinting at the monitor. When he spoke, his voice was reverent. "No, Don, I think you're right. I distinctly remember that his temp was 103 degrees when I left last night. Now it's 102.4. Not much of a drop, but still…"

Don looked over at his father. He thought about his talk with Aaron Shulman, and faith. He swallowed, looked at the monitor again, and made a decision. It went against his very nature — but he was going to believe. For Charlie, he was going to believe. "I think…I think he's getting better."

Alan frantically pushed the call light, his own eyes glued to the monitor. "I hope you're right, Donny," he almost whispered. "Dear God, I hope you're right."

**...**

End, Chapter 32


	33. Happy Endings

**Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 33: Happy Endings**

**…  
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Don, who had been released from the hospital nearly a week earlier, carefully crutched his way toward Charlie's room, Robin walking slowly beside him, her attention on the display of her cell phone.

"Okay," she said, dropping the phone into the pocket of her jacket. "Larry's at the grocery right now, but he should be dropping things off at home and picking your dad up for lunch in about an hour. Then they'll come to see Charlie. Larry can take you and Alan both home in time for dinner. Are you okay with that?"

Don smiled at Robin's repeated use of the word "home". He was undoubtedly the luckiest man alive. He stopped in the middle of the hallway and balanced on his crutches, leaning forward a trifle precariously until he could kiss her on the cheek. "I'm okay with everything. You're safe, Charlie's getting better, and Tuttle's dead."

Robin blushed, smiled, then frowned. "Do you ever feel guilty, that you're so — _happy_ — that another human being is dead?"

Don shrugged, beginning to move down the hospital corridor again. "First, he'd have to be human, wouldn't he?"

Robin nodded. "Good. Cuz I don't feel too bad about it, myself. And I don't do guilt."

"That's because you're not Jewish," Don teased. He looked at her and winked. "At least not yet."

Robin smirked at him and changed the subject. "Sam Jarrett called Colby last night. Seems when the big guns from the FBI showed up in Podunk, Idaho, it scared the truth out of the new sheriff. Took about half an hour of interrogation to break him. I understand he's implicating several high-level conspirators faster than they can write down what he's saying. They will easily clear both Sam's friend – and Sam – of any wrongdoing with the information."

Don glanced at her. "You seem to be pretty up-to-speed on all this. Have you talked to Sam? Will he run again if there's a special election?"

"I haven't spoken with him personally," answered Robin, "but I think he will. He's interim sheriff already; the Governor of Idaho appointed him to the position until a new election can take place. Colby talked to Doris, too — she said the whole county feels so bad about the whole thing, they probably won't even be able to find somebody to run against him."

Don laughed. "You know what would be funny? If Doris ran."

Robin rolled her eyes and punched Don gently on the shoulder. "Don't you dare plant that idea in her head. She'd do it just to be ornery." She pushed open the door to Charlie's room, and waited for Don to crutch inside ahead of her.

"Hey, no way am I taking her away from the kitchen. Not as long as she keeps shipping batches of cookies out here."

"Don't let your father hear you say that," warned Robin. "He's threatened enough by Doris as it is."

Charlie, sitting in the large chair positioned near the hospital bed, blinked at them from a face still too pale and tired for Don's liking. "What are you two talking about?", his voice still raspy enough to remind Don how fine the line was between leading a blessed life — and a cursed one.

"Hey, Buddy," greeted Don. "Robin was just saying that it looks like Sam's going to be sheriff, again. I suggested that it might be interesting if Doris ran against him in the special election."

Charlie grinned. "You are an evil man, Don Eppes."

Don grinned back. "All right if I stay here this afternoon? I've got some outpatient therapy downstairs, later, and Larry's with Dad… Robin thought she might grab an afternoon at the office. I can ride home with Dad and Larry later."

Charlie frowned. "I just had lunch…I think it qualified as lunch. Shouldn't Larry be teaching?"

"It's Saturday," interjected Robin. "That's one reason I want to go by the office; no one else will be there, and I'll be able to get a lot done."

"It's Saturday?" echoed Charlie, sounding a little lost.

Don settled himself on the edge of Charlie's bed. "Sleep all the time and the days all run together, eh?"

"Don't tease him," Robin admonished.

Don looked at her innocently. "I have to. I'm his big brother, and it's my job."

Robin and Charlie both groaned. Robin crossed to Charlie's chair long enough to lean and kiss the top of his fuzzy head. "I'll see you later at the house," she said to Don as she straightened, but stopped when she felt Charlie's weak grip on her wrist. "Charlie?"

Charlie's pale face took on a hint of color. "I was…wondering. Do you talk to Amita? I mean, I know she's busy. Probably helping to cover my classes…"

Robin glanced quickly at Don. He and Alan had decided that Charlie shouldn't be worrying about his relationship with Amita — or anything else — until he was stronger; home from the hospital. Robin, on the other hand, believed that with Amita beside him, Charlie _was_ stronger…but she understood their position. The men loved Amita, but were unable to completely trust her; she had left Charlie once, and they were afraid that Charlie wouldn't be able to take it if she left him again. They had come so close to losing him that their protective instincts were in overdrive.

Don frowned, and Robin looked back at Charlie. "Yes, she is — and fielding lots of offers from other schools; they all want her first-hand report of what's going on in Switzerland with the Hadron Collider. I think she's speaking at UCLA next week." She purposely did not look at Don again before she continued. "You know she was ill with the flu herself, right?"

Charlie nodded. "Dad said that's why they wouldn't let her visit me in ICU. But she's better now?"

Robin smiled brightly. "She is. Still doesn't have the strength she wants — she'd like to start writing a paper about the Hadron for one of the journals…"

"Publish or perish," Charlie murmured. He shifted a little in his chair. "Does she know I was moved into a regular room? I can't use my cell phone in here, but there's a landline. I almost called her last night, but I didn't want to disturb her if she was sleeping…"

Robin risked Don's wrath. "She has a cell, Charlie — she can turn it off when she needs to — but you can still leave her a voice mail."

Charlie let his head slump toward his chest. "I didn't know what to say. Before…before Tuttle's men took her, I was supposed to meet her at a restaurant. She had something she wanted to say to me. I guess…I'm afraid to hear what it might be."

Don interjected himself into the conversation. "Better get going, Robin," he said loudly. "You want to get as much done at the office as you can, right?"

Robin held his gaze with her own. "Absolutely," she agreed amicably, reaching a hand out to squeeze one of Charlie's shoulders. "Don't stay up too long and get tired out," she said, and then she tossed her hair. "And go ahead and give Amita a call, later. I'm sure she'd love to hear from you."

She felt Don's glare on her back all the way out of the room.

**...**

Amita stood in the open doorway of her apartment, in her housecoat and fuzzy blue slippers. She clutched the robe around her neck, and hastened to reassure her good friend that he had not disturbed her. "No, Larry, I wasn't sleeping. I got up hours ago; I've been staring at the computer screen, trying to find the motivation to start my paper." She sighed. "Obviously, I couldn't even find the motivation to get dressed."

Larry smiled at her gently. "You were very ill — I didn't have as bad a case of the flu as you did, and I still don't feel totally normal."

Amita smiled. "Trust me, Larry — 'normal' is not a word most of us would apply to you. Not that we don't love your uniqueness."

Larry rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. _My_ normal, if you will. In addition, you've been traveling recently, and the horrible ordeal you suffered upon your arrival…perhaps you shouldn't push yourself so hard. I came to invite you to lunch with Alan and I, but maybe you should just go back to bed."

Amita reached up one hand to push at her hair. "Oh. Larry, really, I'm fine now. I _would_ enjoy spending some time with Alan — but I'm such a mess…"

Larry glanced at his watch. "Alan's not expecting me for almost an hour. There are some groceries in the car, but nothing perishable. I could come in and wait for you to get ready, if you'd like." He smiled again, brightly this time. "After lunch, we're going to the hospital to see Charles!" His smile dimmed. "He still doesn't look anywhere near healthy to me, but they're anticipating releasing him in just a few more days." His tone became confidential. "Alan still won't let Dr. Chambers schedule the knee surgery — he's not convinced Charlie is ready to come home, either. You can give us your opinion, tell us how _you_ think he looks."

Amita paled, her eyes glazing slightly as she considered Larry's request. _I think he looks adorable_, she thought. _I always have. I always will…but am I ready to see rejection in eyes that used to be full of love for me? Love that I threw away, as if it was something I could easily find again? He hasn't called, he hasn't asked to see me…_

"Amita?" Larry was frowning slightly. "Dear, we'd love for you to come along, but I wish you'd reconsider taking a nap."

Tears pressed at the back of Amita's eyes, and her attempted smile was wobbly. "Maybe you're right, Larry." She sniffed. "On top of everything else, I think I'm getting a cold."

"That settles it," proclaimed Larry. "You get some rest this afternoon. If you're feeling up to it, perhaps you can go see Charles tonight — I'll be taking Alan and Don both home in time for dinner, so he'll be alone this evening anyway."

Amita nodded, smiled again. "Good idea," she said. her voice so low that Larry had to strain in order to hear her. "Good idea."

**...**

Colby stood and lifted his frosty mug in a mock toast. "Here's to J. Everett Tuttle," he said solemnly. "May his pieces eternally rot in hell."

Nikki snorted and David smiled before they both raised their own glasses to drink. Liz reached up and pulled at Colby's shirt. "Sit down," she encouraged, glancing around the crowded bar. "You're making a scene."

Colby lurched away from her touch and stared down at her disdainfully. "It's a cop bar, Warner," he pointed out, his voice slightly slurred. "D'ya think Tuttle is the first asshole to be remembered here?"

Liz considered, then shrugged and took a gulp from her own beer. "Probably not," she said, wiping the foam from her mouth. "But he's probably one of the biggest."

Nikki snorted and David grinned again. They both held their glasses out toward Liz, and she clinked her mug against them, as did Colby, before they all drank again.

Colby dropped heavily into his seat. "Shame Don and Charlie couldn't join us," he said. "If anybody deserves to celebrate another man's death, it's those two."

David swirled his whiskey, watching the liquid in his glass. "I don't know," he mused. "I mean, Don's hosted a few of these farewell parties himself over the years, but that was before he started seeing the rabbi; he might not be so into the celebratory aspect of a monster's death, anymore."

"I'll bet Robin would have hoisted one or two with us," said Nikki. "Maybe we should have waited until Don was off pain meds and Charlie was out of the hospital..."

Colby managed to shake his head and drink some more beer at the same time. "No problem," he said. "We'll just do it again. Personally, I think ol' J. Everett put me through at least a couple of pitcher's worth of hell." He smiled brightly. "Hey! Next time, let's invite Scarpelli, if he's up to it — and Phil, too!"

"Phil?" questioned Nikki.

"That's 'Assistant Director Wright' to the rest of us," David informed her. "He and Colby seem to have achieved a first-name familiarity during the Tuttle regime."

Liz began to giggle. "Lord; I'd love to get drunk with _my_ boss and _his_ boss, all in the name of an idiot. Only in the F. B. Fuckin' Eye."

David lifted an eyebrow and Nikki barked a laugh. "Now you're talkin', home-girl!" She high-fived Liz across the small table.

"Enough of the maudlin for one night," announced David. "Next round is on me, and it's in celebration and appreciation of Charlie – the Energizer Bunny of the team. Takes a lickin', and still keeps on tickin'."

"Here, here!" crowed Colby, waving an empty pitcher in the air. He glanced toward the barkeeper. "Seriously. Here."

**...**

The door to Charlie's hospital room was open only a few inches. Amita approached cautiously, peering around the edge to make sure that no one else was in the room. She had waited until almost 8 o'clock before she went to the hospital – and once there, she had sat in a downstairs lobby for almost twenty minutes before she summoned the courage to go upstairs to Charlie's room. Visiting hours ended at 9 p.m.; surely everyone else had left. As she stepped out of the elevator onto his floor, her cell phone chimed in her purse. She ignored it, other than waiting for a moment for it to stop ringing, then walked quietly down the hallway to Charlie's room.

There was a sink and wall mirror in one corner of the room; Amita could plainly see the mirror, and could tell by looking in it that the room was empty, save for Charlie, who was at a 45-degree angle in the bed, telephone at his ear. She started to back away for a few more moments, to give him some privacy, when he began to speak.

"Um...hey, 'Mita. It's me. Charlie. I, uh, just wanted to make sure you're doing okay. Dad, uh, Dad said you were sick, and, and, I know you've been busy... anyway. Just...I'd like to see you. Talk to you." He was silent for so long, Amita thought he had finished leaving the message, but then he spoke again, in a raspy whisper that drew her closer to the door. "I've missed you. For so long, now, I've missed you." He paused again, then added, "I still love you. Always."

Amita's eyes welled with tears as noises indicated that Charlie was struggling to return the phone to the small table beside the bed. Wiping her eyes and straightening her spine, Amita pushed open the door and entered the room. She smiled at Charlie when he looked up at her. "Do you need some help with that?" she asked. She took a step closer to the bed. "I've thought a long time about this, and I've decided that I know you well enough to trust you. If you tell me to throw the phone on the floor, I may not understand why, but I accept that you have your reasons — and usually, those reasons will end up saving someone's life."

Charlie blinked and dropped the receiver, which slid off the edge of the bed and dangled halfway to the floor. "Amita?"

She took another step. "I am so sorry. I never should have left. I never should have demanded that you stop consulting. I never should have let fear override trust...and love."

He blinked again. "Love?"

She nodded, taking another step. "Love," she confirmed. "All-consuming, once-in-a-lifetime love."

A single tear escaped from the corner of Charlie's good eye, and rolled casually and unchecked down his stubbled cheek. "I think Don and Robin are getting married," he said.

"I think so too," she agreed. "Did you know Larry is an ordained minister? We can beat them to the altar. If you want."

Another tear chased the first, and he held out his arms toward her. "You're all I ever wanted," Charlie answered softly. "Come here."

Amita took another step, which put her close enough to the bed to lower the rail, which she did. She paused to drop her purse into the chair just as the cell phone inside buzzed to indicate an incoming voice message. She smiled as she carefully climbed up onto the bed, and nuzzled into Charlie's side. "Someone just left me a message," she shared. "I hope it was good news."

"I think it was," said Charlie, turning slightly, so that they faced each other. One hand reached up to trace the soft contour of her cheek. "You deserve some good news."

She continued to smile as her arms encircled him and she laid her head on his shoulder. "I've missed you, too," she whispered.

**...**

End, Chapter 33

End, _Perception Deception_

**_…_**

**_A/N: While we're sorry if Don fans did not find this series to be an equal-whumping experience, we have never claimed to be anything other than what we are: Charlie girls. (We did try to injure Don. We did the best we could, and he still has to undergo some therapy, so he's not perfect anymore.)_**

**_Anyway, we hope everyone found something to enjoy somewhere in this three-part series. _**

**_Serialgal and FraidyCat ("Rabid Raccoons")_**_** found great writing partners and lifelong friends — what's better than that?**_


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